


G is for Grayson

by zathara001



Category: Batman - All Media Types, NCIS: Los Angeles, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-24 08:37:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13807536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zathara001/pseuds/zathara001
Summary: AU. Callen receives a letter that takes him back to his first home and a life he left behind.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I'm playing fast and loose with both NCIS: Los Angeles canon and DC Comics (specifically comics, with a little bit of the Joel Schumacher movies) canon here, but I'm helped along by the fact that ages are rarely referenced in the comics and that DC has rebooted or ret-conned its characters so many times I've lost count. I'm claiming artistic license to pick and choose the bits of both canons that work for this story, and it is very definitely AU to all source material from both canons.
> 
> As always, all rights in this work are hereby given to the respective copyright owners.

Hetty Lange had always loved a good mystery. From the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew through the pulps her parents left lying around through Agatha Christie, her earliest years had been spent reading mysteries and, later, spy stories. Over the years, she'd become adept at solving them well before the last chapter.

 

Which made the envelope on her desk all the more maddening.

 

Covered in the primary-colored logo of an overnight courier, the envelope was addressed simply to "G. Callen" in plain block lettering and, most disturbingly, bore the address of this facility - the one buried so deeply in layers of shell corporations and absentee owners that no one should be able to access it.

 

As if that weren't enough, the sender's address was a mail drop in Gotham City. Hetty knew Callen's history as well as her own, and Gotham City didn't figure into it anywhere or anytime.

 

She supposed there was only one way she'd solve this mystery. With a silent sigh, she rose to her feet, envelope in hand, and headed toward the bullpen where Callen sat with the other members of his team, all of them engrossed in paperwork.

 

= * =

 

Expense reports were the bane of G Callen's life. Not even taking a handful of slugs to the chest had been enough to get him out of doing expense reports, and today there was even less of an excuse for not doing them.

 

It had been, surprisingly, almost a week without a major case, and G had already gone through a stack of cold case files a foot tall, so this morning he'd brewed an extra strong mug of tea, sighed deeply, and dug out receipts and forms. Thankfully, this time none of them were more than three months old, so maybe he wouldn't be subjected to one of Hetty's lectures on timeliness.

 

"Mr. Callen."

 

Or maybe not. Still, if they had a case, then he had an excuse for not finishing them, and he looked up. "Hetty?"

 

The diminutive woman was scowling, which was never a good sign. She also held a courier envelope.

 

"Perhaps you can explain something for me," she said, and if they hadn't already drawn the attention of Sam, Kensi, and Deeks, her too-courteous tone certainly had.

 

G ignored Sam and Kensi's curious looks as well as Deeks' _you're in trouble now_ expression. "If I can."

 

"Perhaps you can explain to me how this envelope," she held it aloft, "came to arrive at this office."

 

G blinked. "At a guess, someone addressed it here."

 

"Someone addressed it here," Hetty agreed. "More specifically, they addressed it here to _you._ "

 

A knot of tension balled in G's gut, but he didn't have enough information to offer more than, "Huh."

 

"How did they know where to send it, Mr. Callen?"

 

"Could be an enemy out for revenge," Sam suggested. "Probably should scan it for any nasty surprises."

 

"It has been scanned, Mr. Hanna. Quite thoroughly. But that still doesn't explain how the sender knew this address."

 

"Who is the sender?" G asked.

 

Hetty made a show of squinting at the shipping label, though G suspected she already had Eric Beale searching for information on the sender. "One P. Worth, in Gotham City."

 

The knot in G's stomach dropped even further, even as instinct pushed him to his feet. "I need some personal time."

 

"An explanation, please?" He'd seen Hetty's implacable expression before, but this time he wouldn't give in to it.

 

"Family emergency," was all he said.

 

"How can you know that without seeing what's in the envelope?" Deeks asked, followed by Kensi's more tentative, "I thought you don't have any family."

 

"Not that I've kept in touch with," G told Kensi, then met Deeks' gaze. "And there's nothing in it. The envelope itself is the message."

 

He turned to Hetty, who was still frowning at him. "You know I've got the time on the books."

 

Hetty returned his gaze and for a long moment they assessed each other like two gunfighters in an old Western movie. Finally, Hetty nodded.

 

"How long?"

 

"A week. Two at the most." G nodded to her, almost a bow. "Thanks."

 

"You will, I trust, tell me the story when you return?"

 

"No promises." G pulled his phone from his pocket and pulled up a search program even as he started toward the exit.

 

Hetty's voice sounded behind him. "What are you waiting for, Mr. Hanna? A gilt-edged invitation?"

 

G turned back just as Sam caught up with him, opening his mouth to protest.

 

Sam's expression stopped his voice in his throat. "We're partners, G. I've got your back, whatever this is."

 

G started to object anyway, just on principle, but this time Hetty's voice stopped him. "Mr. Hanna goes with you, or you don't go."

 

"Hetty -"

 

"Let me rephrase. You provide an explanation, or Mr. Hanna goes with you. Those are your options, Mr. Callen." And there was the immovable object that Hetty Lange could become at need.

 

G shook his head. He could win this fight, but it would take more time than he might have. "Fine. Hope your go-bag's ready, Sam."

 

"Always."

 

= * =

 

Sam wasn't surprised when G directed him to the airport - given the sender's return address, he suspected a trip to Gotham City was in their immediate future. He was surprised when G told him to go to the private charter terminal, but something in his partner's expression told him to save any questions for later.

 

Sam hoped G appreciated that he waited not only until they were in the air, but until after the flight attendant - and who knew private charters came with a cabin attendant? - brought them beverages and left them alone before he asked his first question.

 

"You have family in Gotham City?" Sam hoped he kept the question casual enough that G would answer it.

 

"I did, once," G answered, his gaze still focused somewhere out the window, his expression more serious than Sam remembered seeing it in a very long time. Then G barked a humorless laugh. "Twice, maybe, depending on your perspective."

 

Sam turned those words over in his head, trying to tease out their deeper meaning - because with G, there was almost always a deeper meaning. Fortunately, this time G's own words gave him an approach.

 

"You said this trip is a family emergency," Sam pointed out. "Hard to have an emergency if you don't have family."

 

For a long time, Sam thought G wasn't going to answer. When he did, he still didn't look at Sam. "He kicked me out. We'd had troubles before - misunderstandings, the usual. But it was all over when he kicked me out."

 

"Why'd he kick you out?" Sam asked, wondering who _he_ was and what G could possibly have done to be _kicked out_ of a family. Then again, given the vagaries of foster-families, maybe he hadn't really _done_ anything.

 

"I wasn't good enough." Finally, G turned to meet Sam's gaze, and Sam had to call on years of training and undercover work to hide his flinch at the bleakness of his partner's expression.

 

"Then he's a damn fool."

 

G shook his head. "He was right. I wasn't good enough. If I'd been good enough, I wouldn't have gotten shot."

 

This time Sam couldn't hide his reaction. "You got _shot_?"

 

"That was the first time," G mused. "It doesn't get easier with practice."

 

Sam counted to ten, then twenty. Then he repeated the count in Spanish, Arabic, Hebrew, and Farsi before he could keep his voice level when he asked, "How old were you?"

 

"Eighteen."

 

Sam bit back a curse. "You know all your answers just raise more questions."

 

G grinned, and even if it was only a hint of his usual smirk, Sam decided he'd take it. G had been too quiet, too serious, since that damned envelope had arrived. "Sorry. I'm just used to keeping secrets, and this one's a doozy."

 

"You don't have to tell me," Sam assured him. "I'm just trying to figure out how to have your back."

 

"Pretty sure you'll figure it out," G said. "Just - don't tell anyone else."

 

Sam quirked an eyebrow at him. "Not even Hetty?"

 

"I'll tell her what she needs to know." G settled back in his chair and closed his eyes.

 

Sam didn't believe for one second that G was actually going to sleep, but he let his partner drop the subject.

 

For now.


	2. Chapter 2

If the private jet had surprised Sam, the car waiting for them at Gotham Airport floored him.

 

"G," he said, not bothering to hide his enthusiasm. "Do you know what that is?"

 

"Pretty sure it's a car, Sam."

 

Sam didn't even notice that G had fallen into their usual banter. "Calling that a car is like calling a diamond a rock. That, my friend, is a 1960 Rolls Royce Phantom."

 

"Indeed it is, sir," the silver-haired man standing beside the car agreed, and amusement tinged his British-accented voice. "Are you a connoisseur of cars?"

 

"Only the good ones," Sam said, eyeing the vehicle's classic lines and impeccable finish. "She's a beauty."

 

"That she is," G agreed, his voice yanking Sam back from his study of the car. "Good to see you again, Alfred."

 

"And you, Master D-"

 

Sam caught G's minute shake of his head, but only because he was looking for it.

 

"G's good, Alfred. This is my partner, Sam Hanna."

 

The man's - Alfred's - eyes widened ever so slightly. "Master Hanna."

 

Sam grinned. "Partner as in cop. My wife would object to the other kind."

 

Alfred took that news without blinking. "Indeed. Have you any other luggage, Master G?"

 

"We're good." G opened the trunk of the Phantom, tossed his go-bag inside, then held out a hand for Sam's.

 

Then Sam was blinking as Alfred opened the rear door for them. With a grimace, G climbed in. Sam hesitated, looking from G to Alfred and back.

 

"If you will, Master Hanna?"

 

"Yeah," Sam muttered. "Right."

 

The interior of the car was as well-kept as the exterior, and even G seemed to sit a little straighter than usual in it.

 

"How is he?" G asked when Alfred slid into the driver's seat.

 

"In a coma," Alfred answered, and Sam winced at the matter-of-fact nature of the response. He knew the British had a reputation for having stiff upper lips, for keeping calm and carrying on, but this man seemed to be going out of his way to cement the reputation for all eternity.

 

"How long?" G asked.

 

"Four days." Which meant the message had been overnighted to G on the third day. Sam filed the information away, even if he had no idea whether it might be significant.

 

"How'd it happen?"

 

Sam caught Alfred's frown in the rear-view mirror.

 

"It's okay," G said. "Sam knows how to keep secrets."

 

"A bullet grazed his skull," Alfred said, though his expression showed his disagreement with G's assessment. "And then he hit his head when he fell."

 

"Double trauma," Sam murmured. "That's not good."

 

"His prognosis is guarded," Alfred continued. "But you know as well as anyone how stubborn he is."

 

"Yeah," G agreed. "So why send for me?"

 

"Protocols."

 

Sam guessed that made some kind of sense, given G's nod, but what kind of person has protocols for being in a coma?

 

"Anyone with him?" G asked.

 

"He is not seeing anyone, if that's what you're asking," Alfred replied. "Miss Gordon, Commissioner Gordon, Doctor Thompkins and I have been taking turns sitting with him. He has had a few other visitors, of course."

 

"Of course," G agreed, then lapsed into silence.

 

Sam let the silence linger, surprised that it wasn't more uncomfortable than it was. But then, G obviously knew this Alfred person very well, and he'd always been able to be silent with people he knew.

 

Then they were pulling into a parking lot, and Sam craned his neck to see where they were. Ah, of course - the sign he found read _Gotham Mercy General Hospital_.

 

"Mercy General?" G sounded surprised. "Not the clinic?"

 

"The clinic is very well equipped for what it is," Alfred said. "But it is not equipped for a comatose patient. Nor is Doctor Thompkins qualified to care for one."

 

"I suppose." G stared at the building - or maybe at something else only he could see.

 

"Will you be coming home tonight, Master G?" Alfred asked.

 

"You know as well as I do that it hasn't been home for a long time."

 

Before Sam could even begin to parse whatever layers of meaning were in that statement, he felt G's gaze on him.

 

"How about it, Sam? You up for seeing my childhood haunts?"

 

It was on the tip of Sam's tongue to agree, but years of working with G Callen had taught him to double check his instincts where his partner was concerned, so he took a moment to examine G's expression.

 

But G had worked with him just as long, and managed a smile, or at least the start of one. "It's okay, Sam - whatever you decide is fine."

 

"Then, sure," Sam said. "Save me the cost of a hotel room."

 

"If you think I'd make you pay for a room when you're only here because of me …" G shook his head before looking up at Alfred. "Guess you have two houseguests tonight."

 

"I'll make up the room across from yours," Alfred said. "And I'll arrange for a car to be brought here."

 

"You're the best, Alfred." G's smile was more genuine this time, and he reached forward to clap the older man on the shoulder.

 

Then G was out of the car and Sam was scrambling to catch up to him. G might not have wanted to make this trip, but now that he was here, he was a man on a mission.

 

Whatever that mission was.

 

= * =

 

G strode through the doors of Gotham Mercy General Hospital. It had been a long time since he'd been here, but he knew the route to take as well as if he walked it every day. Sam followed a step behind him, a solid, comforting presence.

 

He'd have to tell Sam the truth - or at least part of it, he amended. He tried not to think that telling Sam would be practice for telling Hetty, but he knew it was.

 

Still, that was for later. Now was for getting into the private ward and seeing the man he'd once thought could be his second father.

 

There was a security guard at the door to the private wing, and a no-nonsense matronly type at the information desk outside it. She looked up at him with a forbidding expression.

 

"Authorized visitors only," she said, her brown eyes almost black with purpose.

 

She would, G mused, have made a hell of an agent, once upon a time.

 

"Pretty sure my name's on the list." He pulled an ID that he hadn't used in years from his wallet and offered it to her.

 

He'd expected the widening of her eyes, but her open-mouthed, "Oh," made him revise his earlier assessment of her potential as an agent.

 

"Discretion," he reminded her before she could say his name aloud. He'd tell Sam later, but the rent-a-cop had no need to know.

 

"Of course," she said, and turned to nod at the guard. The guard stepped aside and punched in a combination on the keypad beside the door.

 

"Last room on the right," the matron added.

 

"Thanks," G said to her and nodded to the guard as he stepped through the door.

 

"I've seen luxury hotels that weren't as nice as this," Sam observed quietly. "You come from money, G?"

 

"No," G replied, equally quietly. "Not even almost."

 

"There's a story there."

 

"Tonight, over a bottle of the good stuff," G said. He had to commit, or he'd find a way to avoid talking about a past he'd left far behind him.

 

There were six rooms in the private wing, three to each side. Closed doors indicated that four of the rooms were occupied, though there were no names listed on either the doors or at the nurses' station in the center of the wing to tell him who else might be patients here.

 

Not that he cared who might be in those other rooms. Not when his attention was focused on the last room on the right. He rested his hand on the doorknob and took a slow breath to steady himself.

 

Sam's hand on his shoulder was more reassuring than he wanted to admit. With a last glance at his partner, G turned the handle on the door and pushed it open.

 

He'd thought he was ready, thought he was prepared to see his mentor, his _soi disant_ father figure, lying motionless in a bed, his life maintained more by machines than by his own stubborn will.

 

"Bruce." The word was an exhale, a breath more than a name. "What the hell have you gotten yourself into this time?"

 

G crossed the few steps to Bruce's bedside, took the other man's hand in his, even as he noted the vital signs on the monitor and the array of IV bags hanging beside the bed.

 

"Do you really want to know?"

 

G turned more at the acid in the voice than the voice itself and found himself looking down at a redheaded woman in a wheelchair.

 

"Babs," he said by way of greeting, keeping his tone respectful. She deserved the respect and more, and he could only hope she still read him like she'd done when they were both younger and more idealistic.

 

"What are you doing here?" she asked, her tone only a little softer.

 

"Protocols," he said, rolling his eyes for good measure.

 

She laughed, and then seemed surprised that she had. "Yeah. He has lots of those. Are you going to introduce me to your friend?"

 

G heard the accusation in her tone - the _how dare you bring an outsider here now?_ \- but Sam spoke before G could and offered his hand. "Sam Hanna. We work together."

 

"Do you?" Her too-knowing gaze darted between the two of them before settling on Sam again as she took his hand. "Barbara Gordon. We used to work together."

 

"Five years and change," G told her by way of at least a partial explanation why Sam was here.

 

"Doing what?" Babs still looked skeptical.

 

"NCIS," Sam said. "Naval Criminal Investigative Service."

 

"Huh."

 

G had to smile at Babs' tone. "I only ever disagreed with his methods, never his goals."

 

She eyed him dubiously. "If you say so."

 

G sighed. "You don't have to believe me, Babs - but could we not fight about it? Not while he's … like this."

 

For a long moment, she held his gaze, her own belligerent, but then she sank back into her chair. "You're right - this is about him, not us. It's been a long few days."

 

"Take a break," G suggested. A glance at his watch made him add, "Get something to eat. You too, Sam - I know you haven't had anything since breakfast. I'll stay with him."

 

He met Sam's gaze, and was thankful for his partner's easy acceptance of the situation.

 

"I could eat," Sam said before turning to Babs. "Know anyplace good? I'll buy."

 

"I'd take him up on that," G said. "Sam doesn't buy unless he's lost a bet."

 

"Very funny, G," Sam shot back, his tone one of mortal offense. Babs laughed, and G felt something inside him unclench at the sound. She might never be easy with him again, but for now, they were in this together.

 

"C'mon," Babs said. "My van's parked around back."

 

Then they were gone and G was alone with Bruce. He hooked a toe around one of the visitors' chairs and tugged it closer before sprawling into it.

 

Now that he had the time to study the other man's features, G saw how worn the man looked, even when he should have been relaxed thanks to the drugs no doubt pumping through his system.

 

 _The price of his chosen lifestyle_ , a voice in the back of G's mind whispered. _Could've been yours, too, but you got out before it came to this._

 

Whatever _this_ was, G amended silently. Alfred's explanation had been bare bones, and he wouldn't get any more information until he was alone with either Alfred or Barbara, but what little he knew of the facts, and what all he knew of Bruce, suggested that Bruce had flung himself into a situation without doing a full reconnaissance of the area.

 

He'd done that many times before without serious consequences, but now it seemed that Fate was done favoring him.

 

"If you survive this," G told the man on the bed, "we are having a serious talk about your priorities."


	3. Chapter 3

The staff very politely kicked them out around ten p.m. Sam wasn't certain he entirely believed their explanation, that it was better for the health of the visitors as well as the patients to have a few hours of downtime each day, but he wasn't going to argue.

 

Maybe once they were alone, G would tell him what all of this was about.

 

Barbara offered them a ride, but G shook his head. "Alfred's having a car brought around. See you in the morning?"

 

Barbara studied G intently. Like Hetty, she didn't appear intimidated by anyone taller than she was. Finally, she nodded. "See you in the morning. And … thanks for coming."

 

G only nodded before turning for the exit and the receptionist station beyond where, presumably, he'd find out whether Alfred had, in fact, sent a car. That left Sam alone with Barbara for a moment, and he gave her his best grin.

 

"Sorry if he's a little … abrupt."

 

To his surprise, Barbara laughed. "If you think _that's_ abrupt…." She shook her head and smiled up at him. "Thanks. There hasn't been a lot of laughing since he got shot."

 

"Understandable," Sam agreed. "May I escort you to your car?"

 

"No, thanks," Barbara replied. "I'll be fine."

 

Sam was considering how to object - the neighborhood might or might not be generally safe, but there were low-life scum of every class who'd consider a woman in a wheelchair a prime target.

 

"Hey." Barbara's gentle nudge brought him out of his thoughts. "Look."

 

She gestured to the chair beside her, and only now did he realize that there were what looked like escrima sticks built into the supports of her chair.

 

"Yes, I know how to use them," she added. "But thank you. It's rare to find a gentleman anymore."

 

"At least let me get the door for you." Sam took a couple of steps forward and opened the door to the reception and waiting room.

 

"Thanks."

 

Sam followed her through the door, and saw G waiting, keys in hand. He looked uncertain for a moment, before Barbara held out a hand.

 

G took it and bent to kiss her cheek. "G'night, Babs."

 

That's when Sam found out that just because Barbara didn't want an escort to her car didn't mean G - and by extension he - wasn't going to watch her until she'd gotten into her van, stowed the wheelchair, and had the engine started.

 

"You worry too much," she called over the rumble of the engine.

 

"Habit," G called back with a wave, and then turned to the Mercedes sedan that Alfred must have arranged.

 

Sam got into the passenger seat and waited until G had started the engine before he spoke. "G -"

 

"When we get there."

 

Sam nodded an acknowledgment, then studiously avoided looking at G when he asked, "So - you and Barbara were a thing?"

 

"I had a mad crush on her when I was a kid," G admitted. "But it never went anywhere."

 

"Never got up the guts to ask her out?"

 

"More that she couldn't see me as anything other than the kid she used to babysit."

 

Sam considered that for a moment. "She looks good for her age."

 

G snorted.

 

"G -"

 

"Please, Sam. Wait until we get there."

 

Sam watched G navigate onto the freeway. His partner looked better than he had since Hetty had shown up with the courier envelope - not happy, exactly, but accepting of the situation. So Sam sat back and watched the Gotham skyline.

 

= * =

 

 _There_ turned out to be an honest-to-God _mansion_ , sprawling over the equivalent of half a city block in Los Angeles and rising three stories at its towers. A sign on the gate read _Wayne Manor_ , and everything clicked into place.

 

Sam had heard of Bruce Wayne, of course - he might not make the papers as often as Mark Zuckerberg or Warren Buffett, but he wasn't a recluse, either - but had never expected that G Callen would have any connection to a billionaire.

 

"The hell, G?" Sam said. "You grew up here, and now you can barely be bothered to stay in one place?"

 

"I grew up here," G said as he pulled the Mercedes up to a garage, but parked it outside. "But it's not where I'm from. I'm just a Romani brat who got in way over his head."

 

"Romani." Sam repeated the word, testing it. "You mean gypsy?"

 

"I mean Romani," G said. He climbed out of the car and waited for Sam to do the same before locking it and heading for the house. "Gypsy is actually considered an insult."

 

"No offense meant."

 

"None taken."

 

The door opened as they approached, and Sam wondered idly if Alfred were somehow related to Hetty Lange.

 

"You should be in bed, Alfred," G admonished the older man.

 

"I shall retire directly, Master G," Alfred said. "But there are snacks in the refrigerator and Scotch in the drawing room."

 

"I wouldn't expect anything else," G said. Then he looked down, and Sam wondered what had made his confident partner so uncertain. With a silent breath in, G raised his eyes once more. "Anything different downstairs?"

 

Alfred's eyes widened. "Are you certain that's wise?"

 

G's mouth twisted into a grim expression that wasn't quite a smile. "I'm certain that when I got shot the first time, you visited me. Babs visited. Hell, even Pop Haly came to visit. But he never did."

 

Alfred looked like he wanted to protest, but he simply nodded, his lips compressed in a thin line. Sam had to wonder what the story was behind that shot, but G was speaking again.

 

"I'm equally certain that when I got shot the last time, Sam didn't just visit. His wife and kids practically set up camp in my hospital room. I don't know if it's _wise_ or not, but if anyone deserves the truth about me, it's Sam."

 

"Very well," Alfred said, and Sam heard a little more warmth in his tone. "No changes, save the combination is the day you left us."

 

"Thanks, Alfred," G said before turning to Sam. "Scotch or snack?"

 

"Scotch," Sam said fervently. "Definitely Scotch. Probably a double."

 

G chuckled. "Scotch it is. Night, Alfred."

 

"Good night, Master G, Master Hanna."

 

"Just Sam," Sam began, but G shook his head.

 

"He's genetically incapable of calling anyone just by their first name."

 

"Not entirely correct," Alfred said. "I am incapable of being rude without intending to be so."

 

"A true gentleman." G grinned, and Alfred nodded once before turning and vanishing into the depths of the house.

 

Sam followed G into what had to be the drawing room, trying not to gawk like a tourist. Of course G noticed anyway.

 

"Go ahead, look around. I spent the first month I was here just exploring, and I don't know that I've seen all of it yet."

 

Sam could take a hint, and wandered slowly around the room, taking in the portraits on the wall - one of the man in the hospital bed with a very young G beside him and another of an older couple who might have been the man's parents, as well as the books on the shelves - a healthy mix of nonfiction subjects as well as the classics and a handful of popular novels, and the antique furniture and _objets d'art_ scattered tastefully about.

 

Sam shook his head and turned back to G, who stood with two tumblers of amber liquid in his hands. "All of this as a kid, and now you barely have a chair and a bed."

 

"What else do I need?" G extended one of the tumblers to Sam, who took it and inhaled the spicy-sweet aroma.

 

"What is it, some kind of teenage rebellion?" Sam took a slow sip, savored the burn of the whisky down his throat, and almost moaned.

 

"Glenlivet," G said. "Founder's Reserve. I'm thinking I'll get Hetty a bottle for Christmas."

 

"As long as you get me one, too." Sam followed G to a cluster of chairs in a conversational grouping, though he couldn't bring himself to sprawl in one the way G did. "You gonna tell me the story?"

 

G swirled the whisky in his glass and took a sip before he met Sam's gaze squarely. "I was born Richard John Grayson, part of the Flying Graysons circus act."

 

"Circus, G?" Sam didn't doubt his partner, but that sounded like something out of a child's fantasy. "Really?"

 

Thankfully, G took his skepticism in stride. "Really. By the time I was six, I was doing quadruple somersaults without a net. That was my family's trademark - we never used a net."

 

Sadness lurked behind G's carefully neutral expression. Sam said only, "And?"

 

"And - one night we were performing here, in Gotham. I didn't know it at the time, but there were some mobsters shaking down Pop Haly - he owned the circus. He didn't pay, and they sabotaged the trapezes. My parents fell to their deaths."

 

"I'm sorry, G." Sam had to say it, though G didn't look like he wanted or needed sympathy.

 

"Bruce Wayne was in the audience that night," G continued, his gaze more on the liquid in his glass than anywhere else. "His parents were murdered when he was young, too, and when the CPS people thought that a circus wasn't a good environment for an orphaned child, he took me in. That's the easy part."

 

Sam stared at his partner. "Not sure I want to know what the hard part is."

 

"It's your choice." G sounded serious, and Sam found himself straightening in his chair. "I'll tell you everything if you want to know. But if you don't … no harm, no foul."

 

The words seemed sincere enough, but Sam knew his partner well enough to know that if he refused this offering of G's whole self, he might as well go looking for another partner. He wouldn't do that, not least because over the years, G had become more than a partner. He'd become family.

 

"Tell me," Sam said.

 

"Easier if I show you." G rose to his feet and crossed to an unobtrusive door in a far corner.

 

Sam followed, watching closely, but G shielded his movements with his body. Still, the quiet clicks Sam heard suggested G was tapping a code into a keypad.

 

When G pushed the door open and stepped through it, Sam couldn't see any sign of a keypad in the wall.

 

"Nice work," he said.

 

G just shrugged. "C'mon."

 

Sam followed him through the door, nodding in approval as G closed and secured it behind them, and then down a staircase into a … cavern?

 

Sam frowned and looked more closely. Yes, it was a cavern, but a cavern unlike any he'd ever seen - filled with enough computers and screens to make Eric and Nell jealous, plus a gym set-up, and a couple of cars and a motorcycle. To one side, Sam could just see a couple of free-standing cabinets, but they were in deep enough shadow that he couldn't make out any more details.

 

G dropped into one of the chairs at the computer station. "Welcome to the Batcave."

 

"Batcave?" Sam looked up into darkness. "There are bats here?"

 

G laughed. "Not unless something's gone badly wrong. No, Batcave as in Batman."

 

"Batman." Sam turned the name over in his mind. It sounded familiar, but … he got it. "Gotham's urban legend."

 

And had the satisfaction of seeing G's visible surprise. "You've heard of him."

 

"Aiden went through a phase of urban legends a while back. Batman was his favorite."

 

G chuckled without humor. "Bruce'll love that."

 

"Bruce … Wayne? Bruce Wayne is Batman … Batman's real?"

 

"Sit down before you fall down, Sam." G kicked another office chair toward him, and Sam sank into it.

 

"He told me not long after I'd moved in," G said. "Brought me down here, asked if I wanted to help him get justice for my parents… or revenge. After a pretty good argument that sometimes they're the same -"

 

"They're not," Sam said.

 

"No, they're not, but I was too young to know that, hence the argument." G took another sip of whisky. "Long story short, I became his sidekick, and I took the photo that sent my parents' killer to the electric chair."

 

"Good," Sam said. Then he frowned. "So all that stuff about being in thirty-seven foster homes between the ages of five and eighteen is a lie?"

 

"Not a lie, not entirely," G said. "I was in and out of foster homes, but I was investigating them."

 

"Investigating them? For what?"

 

"Compliance with the rules, abuse, neglect …" G trailed off with a shrug. "It was a change of pace from going out with Bruce every night, and it mattered to me. I'd avoided the foster system by sheer luck, and I wanted to make sure anyone who wasn't so lucky at least wasn't abused in the process."

 

"But you were a kid," Sam objected, trying to picture Aiden or Kamran doing that kind of work at five. No, he corrected himself, G said he was at least eight or nine. Still, the image wouldn't come.

 

"I didn't feel like one," G said. "Not since my parents died. And Bruce … Bruce is a good man, at heart, but a crusader more than a parent."

 

"Why'd he kick you out?"

 

"Because I got shot."

 

" _What?_ "

 

"Chill, okay? It was a long time ago, and it was a long time coming. My getting shot was just the final straw."

 

"Damn, G -" Sam broke off. "Or is it Richard?"

 

"G. I left Richard Grayson behind when I walked out of here." G blew out a breath. "It wasn't easy, but there were too many associations with that name. It was better to be G Callen, a blank slate, so I could do what I wanted to do."

 

"Which was?" Sam asked.

 

"Do what he does -" G waved a hand to indicate the cave where they sat. "Only do it _right_ , within the law, not outside it."

 

Sam had a hundred questions, but before he could ask even one, the rumble of an engine - motorcycle, he thought, but it was difficult to be certain given the odd echoes within the cave - sounded.

 

G shot to his feet, setting his Scotch aside as he did. Sam followed suit, reaching for the weapon at his back. G held out a hand.

 

"Probably won't need that. Only friends know how to get in here from the outside."

 

"That you know of," Sam corrected. G didn't object, so Sam unholstered his pistol, held it by his side but out of view of the tunnel where the engine noise came from.

 

A few seconds later, the motorcycle came into view. Sam squinted against the sudden brightness thrown by its headlight and could just make out the silhouette of the rider.

 

The rider - male, maybe a teenager based on his size, Sam decided - brought the motorcycle to a stop beside the biggest of the cars arrayed in the cave and turned to face them as he lifted the faceplate on his helmet. Once his eyes adjusted to the normal light of the cavern, Sam saw that the rider wore a suit of body armor in muted reds and greens … and a cape lined in yellow?

 

It was only the rider's serious expression when he removed his helmet that kept Sam from laughing aloud - that, and G's tension beside him.

 

"Who are you?" the rider demanded. "How did you get in?"

 

"From the drawing room," G answered easily. "And as to who I am … you're wearing my costume - Robin, right?"

 

The rider's lips thinned, and Sam would bet his eyes narrowed behind the mask he wore. "You're the one who walked away."

 

"I'm the one he kicked out," G said evenly, and the exchange only made Sam want all the details of that event. "Good idea to mute the colors on the suit, but why keep the cape?"

 

"What do you mean?" The rider - Robin - hadn't come any closer, but he also hadn't made any threatening moves. Sam told himself to relax, but G's tension kept him from following through.

 

"The body armor is because I got shot." G's voice was way too casual, but Sam let him handle the conversation his own way. "But considering it was his cape that meant I couldn't see the shooter, you'd think he'd have gotten rid of that, too. Not to mention the craptastic air resistance."

 

"What are you doing here?" Robin came down the stairs from the platform where he'd parked the motorcycle toward them. As he came closer, Sam's hunch that he was barely in his teens was confirmed. Sam's gut clenched at the thought of someone his son's age going out into the streets to … what? Fight crime?

 

"Alfred sent for me. You can call me G."

 

The young man frowned, and G shrugged. "You don't have to give me your name if you don't want to. I won't go looking for it."

 

"You couldn't find it." Robin sounded confident, borderline cocky.

 

"Careful," Sam said, returning his pistol to its holster. "He'll take that as a challenge."

 

Robin's eyes followed the movement, but he said nothing.

 

"What were you working on?" G asked, and the question made Robin's shoulders sag just a little.

 

"Trying to find out who shot him."

 

G's eyebrows shot up. "Nobody's bragging about it?"

 

"Not that I've heard, and I've been out there every night since it happened."

 

"No offense," Sam said, "but would anyone actually talk to you about it? In costume or otherwise?"

 

Robin scowled at him. "What do you mean?"

 

"You're what - thirteen?" Sam guessed. Robin didn't say anything, but he stiffened slightly, and Sam suspected he was right. "Nobody's gonna brag to a kid."

 

Now Robin bristled. "You think they'd brag to you?"

 

"Yeah," Sam said easily. "I do."

 

"This is what we do, Robin," G said and showed his badge. "We're federal agents, undercover specialists."

 

"So let us try," Sam said, in the bargaining but still conversational tone he'd perfected with Aiden and Kamran. "Got nothing to lose, right?"

 

"Just give us a place to start," G added. "Whatever you have so far."

 

Robin looked between them, still dubious, but then blew out a breath. "The trail gets colder every night. Okay."

 

"Okay," G said. "Sleep tonight, and tomorrow, you show us what you have, and we'll get started. Deal?"

 

G offered his hand, and Robin shook it before turning to Sam with his hand outstretched.

 

"Good grip," Sam said, impressed in spite of himself.

 

"C'mon, Sam." G picked up his glass and drained it. "Time for good little agents to be in bed."

 

Sam followed G back up the stairs and into the house proper. After a detour to the kitchen - and damn but Michelle would kill for a kitchen like that one, all granite and stainless steel - they made their way upstairs aided by night lights plugged in along the stairwell and the hallway. G paused outside a door.

 

"My room when I lived here," he said, and his tone was somber.

 

"Bad memories?" Sam asked.

 

"Not bad - just a lot of them." G pointed to the door Sam stood beside. "Yours. Pretty sure it has an en suite bathroom. If not - what?"

 

Sam let out his grin. "Surprised you even know what an en suite is."

 

"Funny guy." G scowled, but there was no real anger in it. "Alfred usually doesn't have breakfast ready until ten at the earliest, so come get me when you wake up and I'll scrounge something from the kitchen."

 

"Those snacks he said he made?" Sam guessed.

 

"Probably." G turned away but paused before he opened the door to his room. Sam waited, and it was only a few heartbeats before G turned back. "Thanks for coming."

 

"It's what partners do, partner." Sam clapped G on the shoulder, hoping his tone conveyed his sincerity, and then turned to go into the room he'd been assigned.

 

It was as luxurious as he'd expected, and he snapped a couple of pictures on his cell phone to show Michelle when he got home - never mind that they might spark a round of redecorating.

 

= * =

 

G let the door of his room close behind him and sagged against it, letting the tension of the day drain out of him. Bad enough learning that Bruce had been shot, but that he'd taken on another Robin? He'd never expected that.

 

But G had treated the newcomer the way Bruce had always treated him, with respect and understanding, and so far that seemed to ease the new Robin's distrust. He'd have to play that situation by ear, carefully, and prod Alfred for whatever information he might provide.

 

And he'd have to thank Sam properly - not just for coming, but for listening and for accepting. Or at least, G corrected, withholding any judgment.

 

He kicked off his boots and took them to the closet, then removed his weapon and emptied his pockets, lining everything up neatly on the nightstand, before letting himself collapse on the bed.

 

 _Too soft_ , his brain supplied, but he was too tired to care and was asleep within seconds.

 


	4. Chapter 4

G woke to the feeling of someone _else_ in the room with him.

 

 _Not Sam._ Sam registered in G's senses as safe, so his presence wouldn't have woken him. He kept his breathing slow and even, his eyes closed, and stretched out with his other senses, searching for any clue to the identity of his intruder.

 

 _Not Alfred_. No scent of hair pomade, nor scratch of fabric against fabric.

 

 _Not Babs._ Not that he'd expected her to visit, but the absence of the scent of rubber or grease for her wheelchair confirmed it.

 

That left only, "Robin."

 

He heard a gasp and opened his eyes to see the kid staring at him, wide-eyed. "How'd you know? I was quiet."

 

"You … projected." G rolled to a sitting position and shrugged. "I don't know any other word for it."

 

"Projected what?" Robin asked, and now that he wasn't wearing the mask, G could see that his eyes were a deep blue, black brows furrowed in confusion.

 

"Your presence." G stretched his arms over his head and headed for the closet. If he knew Alfred, there'd be a selection of clothes for him beyond what he'd brought in his go-bag.

 

Robin's silence confirmed his confusion. G took a moment to survey the clothes in the closet before turning to the kid who'd woken him.

 

"You ever stare at someone to get their attention?" G asked.

 

"No…" Robin dragged the word out.

 

"Try it, sometime. Just sit somewhere and focus on one person - maybe a classmate in the lunchroom. Focus your attention on them and watch what happens. Just don't get caught doing it," he added as an afterthought.

 

"Huh."

 

G grinned over his shoulder at his visitor. "Yeah, it's a kick. You have to learn to watch without projecting, to be still inside yourself."

 

"Any suggestions on how to do that?"

 

"Um." G considered that as he tugged his shirt over his head, tossing it onto his go-bag where it sat on the closet floor, and ignoring Robin's gasp at, presumably, the sight of the bullet-hole scars on his back.

 

"Think about anything other than your purpose in watching whoever you're watching," he said finally and tugged a clean shirt from a hanger. A pair of underwear from a drawer within the closet joined the clean shirt in his hand, and he met Robin's gaze.

 

"Maybe go over algebra homework," he suggested. "Or fantasize about some pretty girl. Anything but the person you're watching."

 

He watched Robin nod slowly, and added, "You can practice on me while I'm here, if you want. Sam, too, as long as you tell him beforehand. He gets…twitchy."

 

"Twitchy." Robin sounded skeptical again.

 

"Twitchy. You don't want to see him twitchy." G nodded toward the folder Robin was holding. "That what you've got on Bruce's shooting?"

 

"Yeah."

 

"You comfortable briefing me while I take a shower?"

 

Robin's expression was all the answer G needed.

 

"Go knock on Sam's door, tell him we're having breakfast and briefing in ten."

 

Robin nodded and all but ran for the door. G chuckled to himself, wondering if he'd ever been that body-shy.

 

_Probably not - always a lot of people around at the circus._

 

Eight minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom to find Sam, freshly showered and shaved, examining the contents of his bedroom.

 

"Seriously, G? The whole house is a museum, and your room looks like a teenage boy's room."

 

"I was a teenage boy," G reminded him. "Robin wake you up?"

 

"I was already up. Kid's got potential."

 

"Let's hope he lives long enough to fulfill it." G pulled on socks and boots, then started for the door.

 

Sam's hand on his arm stopped him. "What're you saying, G?"

 

"Bruce would never intentionally hurt him, if that's what you want to know," G answered. "But he's … charismatic. Inspirational. And sometimes, he gets too focused on his quarry."

 

"That what happened when you got shot?"

 

"More or less. I'd dropped down from the roof, and he landed in front of me, his cape billowed out, and I was blind. I didn't know when the guy pulled a gun, didn't know when he started firing until he did. Caught one under my ribs."

 

"Sounds careless, even negligent."

 

"Maybe," G said. "And maybe I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt, even now. But it was a wake-up call. You should be glad for it."

 

"Glad?" Sam couldn't contain his outrage. G smirked.

 

"If that hadn't happened, I wouldn't have left and joined the FBI, the CIA, and ultimately NCIS. You'd never have met the best partner you've ever had."

 

"Best?" Sam repeated, one eyebrow quirked. "Think Michelle might disagree with you on that."

 

"Different kind of partner," G grinned and accepted Sam's slap on the shoulder. "C'mon, let's get breakfast."

 

= * =

 

Breakfast, as Sam had suspected, consisted of the snacks Alfred had made the night before, but was nonetheless still filling: a tray of meats and cheeses, fruit salad tossed in a honey-lemon dressing, egg and tuna salads, and an array of breads set out by the restaurant-sized toaster, all in quantities sufficient to feed Sam's former SEAL team.

 

"Snacks," Sam muttered. "If this is a snack, what's a meal?"

 

"Don't ask," G advised him. "Just enjoy."

 

"Sound advice, Master G," Alfred said as he came in from the kitchen bearing - Sam blinked - a silver coffee service? Seriously?

 

At G's nod, Sam helped himself from the buffet-style set-up. There was plenty, but manners compelled him to take only a little of everything. At least until G craned his neck over Sam's shoulder.

 

"I've seen you eat twice that much when you weren't hungry. Load up - there's plenty more in the kitchen."

 

"Seems like a lot," Sam said.

 

"Alfred?" G turned to the older man. "How much would Bruce and I eat on a given day?"

 

Alfred didn't look up from pouring healthy mugs of coffee for the two of them - and for Robin, Sam noticed. He bit back a frown. Robin wasn't his son, but thirteen seemed way too young to get someone started on coffee.

 

"Before or after you reached your full growth?" Alfred asked.

 

"The point is," G said, "Alfred's used to feeding people who are as active as you are."

 

G demonstrated by heaping his plate full of the savory items and then taking a second, smaller, plate just for the fruit salad.

 

Sam gave a mental shrug and followed G's lead - even though he'd never seen G eat that much at one sitting before. He was only somewhat surprised when Robin piled almost as much on his plate as they did on theirs.

 

When the three of them were seated and had made a decent dent in their first helpings, G looked across the table at Robin.

 

"Okay. Brief us."

 

The briefing that followed was impressive, Sam thought, for its thorough brevity. Even though he knew little more about Gotham City than how to spell it, by the time Robin was done, he felt like he could walk into its underworld scene and recognize all the players on sight.

 

And then he reminded himself that a thirteen-year-old boy was giving that briefing and wondered exactly what kind of man Bruce Wayne - _Batman_ \- was. Then he decided that maybe he didn't really want to know.

 

For long minutes after Robin finished, G sat sipping the tea Alfred had refilled twice during the briefing. When G finally looked up, Sam recognized the look in his eyes and found himself fighting back a grin at the fire in the other man's eyes. This was the G Callen he knew and trusted with his life and more. This was G Callen on a hunt for the bad guys.

 

"You said last night that whoever shot Bruce - shot _Batman_ \- wouldn't brag to a kid," G said.

 

"I did."

 

"Who would they brag to?"

 

"Other criminals," Sam answered immediately. "Especially ones they wanted to impress."

 

"But they're _not_ ," Robin objected. "Not a whisper anywhere."

 

"Not that you're hearing," G said, more gently than Sam would've expected given the kid's stubborn insistence on the matter. Then he focused on Sam. "You up for a quick stint undercover?"

 

"You really think that'll work?" Robin stared at Sam, his expression one of total disbelief.

 

"I think it's worth a try, because what you've been doing hasn't been working," G cut in. "If you have a better idea, I'm all ears."

 

Robin sat silently fuming, clearly turning over thoughts and objections. Sam sat back to enjoy the last of his coffee while he watched the kid - who was, he admitted silently, much more of a man than a kid, despite his age and size. Something had happened to make him grow up quickly, just like something had happened to G.

 

The similarities between them made the differences all the more disturbing.

 

"No," Robin said finally. "No better ideas."

 

"Okay." There was no satisfaction, no triumph, in G's tone, just an acceptance of the plan. "Let's see the gear we have available."

 

Sam refilled his coffee before following Robin and G back to the cave.

 

The Batcave, he corrected silently, and then had to wonder what other things would have _bat_ in front of them. Would he be sitting in a bat-chair to work at the bat-computer? Did Robin ride in on a bat-motorcycle?

 

 _Stop,_ he told his subconscious. _That way lies madness_.

 

Speaking of madness …

 

"G," he said when they reached the bottom of the steps.

 

"Yeah?"

 

"You sure we should be doing this? This isn't our case."

 

"Why would you even ask that?" Robin demanded. "Whoever shot Bruce needs to be found and brought to justice."

 

Sam understood the sentiment, had felt it often enough during his career. G, though - G looked torn.

 

"He's not Navy or Marines," Sam continued. "At least, I don't think he is. We haven't been invited in. How do we get jurisdiction so we're not acting like vigilantes?"

 

G flinched at what Sam hadn't said. _Like Batman_.

 

A low hum echoed throughout the cave. Sam glanced around, but neither G nor Robin seemed concerned, so it put it aside for now, in favor of focusing once more on G.

 

"But," Robin protested, "you said you'd help find out who shot him."

 

"Yeah," Sam said. "But what good is finding that out if we don't have enough evidence for a conviction? You know I'm right, G - we need jurisdiction, or this is a waste of time."

 

"You'll have it."

 

The voice came from beyond the stairs, and Sam looked up to see Barbara Gordon wheeling herself toward them.

 

"How can you be so sure?" Sam demanded.

 

But G was smiling - just a little. "Your dad's still the commissioner."

 

Barbara nodded.

 

"Commissioner," Sam repeated. "As in police commissioner? So why aren't they investigating?"

 

Barbara scowled as she wheeled herself up to the computer banks. "Dad wants to, don't think otherwise. But half the GCPD thinks Batman's as big a menace as the criminals he fights, and to make things worse, the new mayor was elected on an anti-vigilante platform."

 

"So we really have to do this by the book." G was looking at Robin when he spoke, and after a long moment, the teen nodded.

 

"I'll clear it with Dad," Barbara said, then bit her lower lip before looking up at G. "Can I tell him you're back?"

 

G hesitated for a long moment, then shook his head. "I'll call him. Better if it comes from me."

 

"Okay," Barbara said. "But let me call him first. You know how he hates being blindsided."

 

G nodded and turned to Sam. "I'll make the call upstairs - better cell reception. Meantime, check the comms."

 

Sam blinked. "Comms?"

 

Robin looked at him as though he were dumber than a box of rocks. "Of course, comms. You don't think we operate without them, do you?"

 

Sam shrugged. "Can't say I ever thought about how vigilantes operate. Not before I came to Gotham, anyway."

 

The effect of Robin's glare was lost in Barbara's laughter.


	5. Chapter 5

When G got off the phone with Commissioner Gordon - a conversation both easier and harder than he had expected, if in different ways - he downed the lemonade Alfred brought him without comment and then headed back downstairs to the Batcave.

 

Barbara sat at the computers, doing God only knew what, and Robin was showing Sam how to throw a batarang.

 

"Guess the comms pass muster," he observed from the foot of the stairs.

 

Sam threw one last batarang at a target dummy before turning to G. "The WayneTech version of what we use. It'll do."

 

Robin bristled for a moment, but then seemed to get that Sam was teasing him. With a huff, he started off toward the dummy to collect the batarangs, and Sam took the opportunity to cross the cave to where G perched on the computer desk beside Babs.

 

"He should be in school," Sam muttered, loudly enough that Babs would hear him, too.

 

 _Not real subtle, Sam._ But his partner didn't hear G's thought - or else ignored it. With Sam, it could go either way.

 

Still, G answered honestly. "He is."

 

Sam's posture relaxed, and G had to add, "Or I don't have any reason to think he's not - Bruce made me go to school and study and keep my grades up. If I didn't, I wouldn't be allowed to go out as Robin. No reason to think he's changed over the years. Babs?"

 

"He's in school," Babs confirmed. "All As except one B."

 

"What's the B in?" Sam asked.

 

"Phys Ed," Babs replied. "He holds back because otherwise he'd outperform everyone else in his class and be recruited for every sport known to man in high school, even college."

 

"But remember," G added, "this is an unusual situation - I wouldn't have gone to school if Bruce had been shot on my watch, either."

 

Sam appeared to think it over, then nodded. "Okay. But I don't like this, G. Not at all."

 

"I know." The _thank you for going along with it anyway_ went unsaid, as so many things between them did.

 

G made a mental note to offer to take Kamran and Aiden for a long weekend one day soon so Sam and Michelle could have some couple time. It was small thanks for Sam's support during this trip, but G knew it was all Sam would accept.

 

He turned back to Babs. "You look awfully comfortable sitting there."

 

She glanced up at him, her mouth curving in a half-smile. "Ever since the chair, I've been working behind the scenes."

 

"Gotta use that eidetic memory for something," G murmured.

 

"Eidetic memory?" Sam repeated. "I thought that's practically nonexistent in adults."

 

"Practically nonexistent is not completely nonexistent," Babs countered. "I'll admit I'm not as good now as I was when I was younger, but …"

 

"But you're still damned good," G finished for her. "So, Ms. Behind the Scenes, what can you tell me and Sam that'll make our job easier?"

 

= * =

 

Sam could admit he was impressed.

 

For a civilian, Barbara Gordon gave a thorough briefing. By the time she'd finished, the information Robin had given was fleshed out enough that he had a working knowledge of the current major players in Gotham's crime scene and a good idea where to find each of them as well as where they liked to hang out, despite having never even been to Gotham City before.

 

G slouched back in his chair, apparently watching Robin moving through some martial arts katas. Sam had seen that look enough times during the years he'd worked with G to know his partner was sifting through the information they'd just been given, considering every avenue of approach.

 

"So how're we gonna play this?" he asked finally.

 

G looked up, his mouth quirked ever so slightly in a predatory grin, and Sam felt all his instincts kicking up in response. G had a plan. Now all they had to do was execute it.

 

G turned to Barbara. "Matches Malone."

 

"Cute nickname," Sam observed. "Arsonist?"

 

"Odd combination of insurance fraud and arson." Barbara glanced up at him with a grin before continuing without looking at any information on the computer. "Small-time, originally, but turned out to be something of a diplomat. He managed to prevent at least one homicide and a couple of gang wars, and probably a whole lot of other minor crimes we don't know about."

 

"Then he wound up dead," G said. "Accidentally self-inflicted gunshot wound."

 

Sam felt his eyebrows climbing up his forehead. "G, you know as well as I do there are no accidents when it comes to guns. You pull the trigger, the bullet's going in whatever direction the barrel's pointed."

 

"Until it's stopped by something," G agreed. "Or it ricochets. Which is what happened to Malone."

 

Drawing on patience developed over years of working with G, Sam asked, "How can he help us if he's dead?"

 

"Because Bruce made sure no one knew he died," G said. "Gave him a proper burial under an assumed name - don't look at me like that, Sam. His only known relative, a brother, died a couple of years before - and used his name and identity to go undercover in the underworld off and on over the years."

 

"You're thinking of going out as Malone," Sam said.

 

"Not quite," G answered. "I can't do his flat, nasal, North Jersey accent worth a damn. Besides, I don't know what his status is at the moment."

 

Now Barbara's fingers flew over the keyboard, reminding Sam of Eric Beale - no, more of Nell Jones, given Barbara's similar hair color. Then he laughed aloud at the photo that appeared on the screen.

 

"Seriously." Sam looked between Barbara and G. "Tinted glasses, striped shirt, and _plaid_ suit?"

 

"To be fair," Barbara said, "the real Matches Malone dressed like that, too." After a moment, she added, "Looks like Bruce last went out as Malone two months ago. Got into a fight with members of the James Gang -"

 

"James Gang?" G said. "As in Frank and Jesse?"

 

"As in Toby and Billy," Barbara said. "They've been trying to move in since Carmine Falcone died."

 

"Criminals with a knowledge of history are at least a change of pace," G muttered. "What happened to Malone?"

 

"Got banged up a bit," Barbara answered. "Nothing serious, but it was a good reason for him to go dark for a while."

 

"And a good reason for Malone's nephew to scope out rumors about Batman before Malone shows his face again," G said.

 

Sam considered that. "Son of the dead brother getting into the family business. It could work."

 

But G was focused on Barbara again as she worked the keyboard - so Sam focused on his partner, studying G's expression. If G were going to lose it over this former crush, Sam wanted as much warning as he could get.

 

Thankfully, for the moment, G only showed professional interest.

 

"You're setting up my identity," he said.

 

"Mm-hm." Barbara didn't look up from her work. "How deep do you want it?"

 

"With any luck, nobody will go digging," G said. "At least not until we've got what we want. Still, no need to make things worse for Bruce after we're gone."

 

"You think he's going to recover?" Barbara asked quietly.

 

"Babs." G reached over to put a hand on her shoulder, and the look on his face was so open, so intimate, that Sam felt like an intruder and fought the urge to look away. "I think if anyone's stubborn enough to recover, it's Bruce."

 

"Enough to still be Batman?" Now Barbara sounded plaintive, and Sam wondered just how much of her life was wrapped up in Batman.

 

"I hope so," G said, and Sam couldn't help wondering if he meant it.

 

Barbara took a breath, let it out. "Okay. One identity. Two layers of backstop?"

 

G nodded. "I'm thinking Jamie Malone sounds good."

 

= * =

 

By nine that night, G had reviewed Bruce's complete file on Matches Malone, committing most of it to memory. He'd let Barbara drive him into town to spend a little time at Bruce's bedside while Sam bought clothes for their cover identities. Sam had flatly refused to buy both plaid suit and a striped shirt for G - "That's fine, I'm being Jamie Malone, not Matches." - but decided that keeping tinted glasses would be enough to cement a family connection in the minds of the people G would be mingling with.

 

Now, G looked dubiously at the shirt lying on his bed.

 

"Orange, Sam?" He looked up at his partner, who had opted for a charcoal gray sport coat over a Henley shirt, the coat cut loosely enough to suggest a shoulder holster beneath.

 

"It goes with the blue-blocker glasses," Sam told him with a straight face.

 

"There better be no photos of me in this outfit." G tugged his own Henley over his head. "Zero. None. Or I'll distribute that picture of you in your ninth-grade school play."

 

G enjoyed Sam's horrified expression. "How do you even know about that?"

 

G grinned and pulled on the orange atrocity. "Michelle likes me."

 

"I'll burn it."

 

"I have digital copies." G buttoned the shirt and tucked it into his jeans. A sport coat similar to Sam's, but in a light blue, covered his carry weapon. He didn't expect to need it on this … mission, for lack of a better word, but it was always better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it.

 

_If that's not one of Jethro's rules, it should be._

 

"I brought your comms."

 

Robin's voice made G turn to face the newcomer - who wore a disgruntled expression along with his caped outfit.

 

"Problem?" G asked, taking one of the earwigs Robin offered and sliding it into his ear.

 

"I don't like guns."

 

G suppressed a sigh. He'd heard that refrain from Bruce more times than he could count - only with Bruce, it was more often phrased as, "I don't like guns or the cowards who use them." It was one reason Bruce had chosen to operate the way he had.

 

"I don't know that anyone likes guns," G said. "Collectors and history buffs aside. But they are tools, and sometimes, they're the right tool for the right job."

 

"Bruce says they're never the right tool."

 

"He's wrong," G said simply, and couldn't help smiling at Robin's shock. "Yeah, it happens - he's only human, despite that larger-than-life impression. But I'm not going to argue the point. He's made his choices and has to live with the consequences, just like we all do."

 

"You always get this philosophical before an op?" Sam asked, his tone deliberately light, G thought, to ease the mood.

 

"Not usually," G said.

 

"Good. I thought I'd been missing something all this time."

 

G chuckled and checked the comms, only mildly surprised when after his check, and Sam's and Robin's, Babs' voice came through.

 

"Oracle online," she said. "Be careful out there."

 

"Always," Robin said, and G had to bite back a protest.

 

Sam, though, said what G was thinking. "You aren't going out there with us."

 

"I'm your backup," Robin said with a stubborn lift of his chin.

 

G felt Sam tense beside him and understood. They'd been partners for years and knew each other's responses and thoughts almost as if they were their own. Throwing someone else in the mix would necessarily throw that balance off.

 

Still, G regarded Robin gravely and said, "The duress word is trapeze."

 

Sam stayed quiet while they got into the car - he took the driver's seat after a brief but wordless exchange with G - and started for the first of Matches Malone's haunts. When he finally spoke, it was in Hebrew.

 

"You sure about letting him come?" Sam asked.

 

"We couldn't stop him," G replied, also in Hebrew.

 

Sam grumbled, but fell into a brooding silence that was, G knew from long experience, no way to start an op. He searched for something to lighten the mood, found it, and switched to English once more.

 

"You speak seven languages besides English. I speak eight. How is it," he asked, "that the only one we have in common besides English is Hebrew?"

 

Sam chuckled, and Babs' voice came through G's earwig.

 

"No telling dirty jokes," she said. "Not unless you're going to share with the rest of us."

 

"Sorry, Babs," G said and turned his attention to the road ahead of them.


	6. Chapter 6

G flashed a grin at Sam as his partner parked the car.

 

"What?" Sam asked, caution edging his voice.

 

"This is gonna be fun."

 

And it would be - at least compared to their usual assignments. Bruce might be lying unresponsive in a hospital bed, but no one's life was in immediate danger at this moment. No one had been kidnapped, no weapons were missing, and no national security secrets were at risk.

 

No matter how dangerous Gotham's criminals might be, they were still only small-time compared to the criminals G and Sam usually faced off with.

 

Even as Sam rolled his eyes, G smiled. Then shifted his expression and posture just enough that Sam would know he was now in character and ready for the operation to begin.

 

Sam stepped out of the car and came around to the passenger side to open G's door.

 

"Don't get used to me opening doors for you," Sam muttered. "I'm not Alfred."

 

A muffled laugh came through G's earwig, and he wasn't certain whether it was Babs or Robin. He'd have to thank Sam for that later, but for now, he strode into Captain Jack's, a waterfront bar that, even so many years after G had left Gotham for what he thought was the last time, was a hangout for a lot of Gotham's more petty criminals. Of course, in Gotham, _more petty_ meant two or fewer murder raps.

 

G braced himself for the sensual assault of sweat, smoke, and stale grease that he remembered from his prior visits and stepped through the door that Sam opened for him, pausing just inside for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the dimmer-than-outside interior.

 

It was barely eight, and this early in the evening Captain Jack's was more than half empty, with only a handful of tables occupied and a pair of men who might be dockworkers - and therefore might not be criminals, but G had learned never to assume - sitting at the bar proper.

 

Oddly, no one had claimed the power chair - the one furthest back with the clearest view of the room. So G did, and waited for someone to approach him.

 

The server, an overweight, probably middle-aged, woman who'd seen too many of life's battles, approached first. "What'll it be?"

 

"Scotch and soda," G answered easily. If this place didn't water its drinks, he'd go back to the circus with his tail between his legs.

 

She grunted what G took to be an acknowledgment and looked at Sam.

 

"Soda, thanks," Sam said, for which she gave another grunt and turned back toward the bar.

 

She'd barely left before the visitor G had been expecting showed up. He was a tall, wiry man with three days' growth of beard and shaggy hair and an air of command.

 

"That's Big Mike's chair," the man said.

 

"Is it? I don't see his name anywhere." G made a show of examining the table around him before looking at Sam. "Do you see Big Mike's name?"

 

Sam craned his neck to look at the back of the chair. "I don't see anything."

 

The wiry man flushed, but whether from anger or alcohol G couldn't tell. "Everybody knows that's Big Mike's chair."

 

"Obviously not," G said. "Y'know, my Sunday School teacher always said a little sharing's good for the soul, and Big Mike isn't here, is he?"

 

Scowling, the wiry man moved away, reaching for something in his pocket. G forced himself not to show any tension. Had Gotham gotten so much worse since he'd left that a man would pull a gun over a minor territory dispute?

 

The man pulled a cell phone from his pocket, and G allowed himself a smile. Big Mike would be here soon, no doubt.

 

The drinks might be watered, but the server brought them seconds after the wiry man had moved away. G met Sam's eyes briefly and saw they shared the same thought.

 

_Waiting to see if a fight would break out._

 

G took the tiniest sip of his drink and confirmed his suspicion. Definitely watered, with just enough Scotch to be tasted, so the customer wouldn't feel completely cheated.

 

G settled back in the wooden chair to wait.

 

Even nursing his drink, his Scotch and soda was half-gone before a stocky man maybe G's own height strode into the bar and crossed to his table. Neither of the two men flanking him looked like more than dumb muscle, but G knew better than to assume anything where they were concerned.

 

"What kinda dumbfuck are you, thinkin' you can come in and take over my chair?" Big Mike demanded, his voice somewhere south of a bellow.

 

"Just a guy wanting a drink." G kept the man's gaze while he took another sip. He put the glass down and added, "Besides, we've already established that your name isn't on this chair. Didn't your flunky tell you that?"

 

"Who the hell are you?"

 

"James Malone," G answered. "You can call me Jamie."

 

"Malone," Big Mike repeated. "As in Matches Malone?"

 

"Uncle," G said.

 

"You here for him?"

 

"Pull up a chair, and I'll tell you."

 

G watched Big Mike's hesitation, but finally, curiosity got the better of him and he sat across from G, clearly unhappy at having to take a chair that wasn't _his._

 

G took another slow sip of his drink - now almost entirely water since the ice had melted - before sitting forward and pitching his tone as though he were sharing a secret.

 

"Uncle's heard rumors," he said. "I'm here to check them out."

 

Big Mike's nostrils flared, and his eyes shifted left, then right. Interesting. What rumors was Big Mike afraid of?

 

What Big Mike said was, "What kind of rumors?"

 

G looked around, again implying that he was sharing something confidential. "That someone shot The Bat."

 

Big Mike's sigh was almost as audible as his relieved expression was visible.

 

Sometime, G thought, when he wasn't working a case, it would be profitable to play poker against Big Mike.

 

"But," G continued, "nobody seems to know who shot The Bat. So Uncle's starting to think it didn't happen, that it's as much an urban legend as The Bat was, at first."

 

"Oh, it happened," Big Mike said, and then looked as if he wished he hadn't.

 

G sat back with a shrug. "Maybe it did. Maybe it didn't. That's what I'm here to find out."

 

"Why?"

 

"The Bat sent Uncle to Gotham State Penitentiary once or twice."

 

Big Mike snorted. "The Bat sent a lot of people to Gotham State. Sent more to Blackgate, the way I hear it."

 

"He's a pain," G agreed. "Thing is, Uncle's prepared to reward whoever shot The Bat."

 

"Reward?" Big Mike tried not to jump on the word, but it was a wasted effort. "How much?"

 

"That's between him and the shooter," G said easily. "Even I don't know. But I do know he's talked about a finder's fee for anyone who helps him answer the question. Who. Shot. The Bat?"

 

"How much of a finder's fee?"

 

"Ten large."

 

Naming a number - any number - was a calculated risk, but a necessary one. G had a limited window to operate in, and he had to gain credibility quickly. But the number he named needed to be on target, neither too low to be mocked nor too high to arouse suspicion.

 

Based on G's initial impressions of Captain Jack's, and his observation of the other patrons who'd dribbled in while he was waiting for Big Mike, ten thousand dollars seemed to fit that range.

 

Big Mike's reaction when he heard the number confirmed G's conclusion. But Big Mike forced a reasonable tone.

 

"Show me."

 

G laughed aloud. "You think I'd carry ten thousand in cash? In Gotham? How stupid do you think I am?"

 

Big Mike's jaw tensed. "You gotta prove you can deliver. We don't much like liars around here."

 

Robin's voice came through his earpiece. "Dammit! He's gonna get made."

 

Sam's quieter voice responded, "Wait for it."

 

G held Big Mike's gaze for a long moment. Then, unhurried, he reached into the inside pocket of his sport coat and withdrew his cell phone.

 

Minutes later, he'd called up the account information for the trust fund Pop Haly had set up for him when his parents died. All of the circus performers and staff had put something toward the fund - not much, in most cases, but whatever they could.

 

G hadn't touched the fund since he gained full control of it at 21. Thanks to compound interest, the account balance was enough to prove to Big Mike that he could pay out ten thousand.

 

Carefully adjusting the display so neither the name of the bank nor the name on the account could be seen, G turned the phone so Big Mike could read the display.

 

"I'll transfer the ten thousand once I've got the information," G said. He pulled the phone back, logged out of the account, and cleared the browsing history.

 

Big Mike seemed stunned by the amount G had shown him. G gave him a moment to recover while he grabbed a cocktail napkin and scribbled the number to one of the many burn phones Bruce apparently kept ready now and slid it toward Big Mike. Then he drained his glass and stood.

 

A gesture in Sam's direction had the other man pulling out a couple of bills to toss on the table.

 

"Gotta go," G said. "Uncle said to make sure I get the word out, so I've got other stops to make."

 

"Wait." Big Mike turned in his seat. "You're telling others?"

 

"Uh-huh."

 

"So how will you know to send the money to me, not someone else?"

 

"Huh. Good point." G made a show of considering the question, though privately impressed that Big Mike had thought to ask it.

 

"How about this," G said. "I'll give you and each of the other bosses I talk to a different code word. The code word the shooter gives me will tell me who to send the finder's fee to."

 

"Yeah, that makes sense. What's my code word?"

 

"Has to be something unusual, something no one would normally say," G mused aloud. "How about -"

 

He bent down to speak quietly into Big Mike's ear. "Mermaid."

 

He straightened quickly. "I don't have to tell you not to try to scam me, do I? I'm not just gonna take someone's word for it. I'll want details of how it happened."

 

"Yeah, yeah. Details." Big Mike rose from his chair, offered his hand. "Gotta say, you're not what I expected from Matches Malone's kid."

 

"Nephew," G corrected and shook the man's hand.

 

"Either way. Pleasure doing business with you."

 

"Likewise," G said, then turned to leave the bar. He didn't have to look back to know that Sam was scanning the room even as he followed.

 

"What did you do?" Robin demanded through the comm. "How'd you prove to him that you could pay the ten thousand?"

 

G didn't answer until he and Sam were safely in the car and Sam was directing them away from Captain Jack's, monitoring the rear-view mirror to be sure they weren't followed.

 

At Sam's nod, G finally answered Robin's question. "I pulled up one of my own accounts, let him see the balance in it."

 

"That the same rainy-day fund you bought my Challenger with?" Sam asked, amused.

 

"Close enough," G said and shot his partner a look that precluded any more questions. Sam nodded once, and G had to wonder whether he was being too paranoid, keeping both his lives as separate as he could.

 

Then he remembered that in his line of work, there was no such thing as being too paranoid.

 

Babs' voice broke into his thoughts. "That was a risk."

 

"Not much of one," G countered. "I didn't let him see the bank or account information, and as soon as this is over, I'll close the account and move the money somewhere else."

 

"Where to now?" Sam asked.

 

"Benny's, on Forty-Fifth," G told him. "Take the next left."


	7. Chapter 7

They stopped at three more bars that night, and at each one, G either challenged or befriended the biggest, baddest boss in the bar, giving each one a pitch that encouraged their cooperation with finding who shot Batman, as well as a code word like G had given Big Mike.

 

Sam had rolled his eyes at those code words - mermaid, larkspur, spearmint, orangutan - but G just shrugged. They were unusual, and that was all G needed them to be.

 

G's burn phone rang just after midnight, as they were leaving a bar that G remembered as somewhat seedier than it was now.

 

G answered the phone. "Malone."

 

"You the one offering the reward?" The voice that came through was thin, almost reedy, and held a note of panic.

 

"Yeah," G said. "You the one claiming it?"

 

"Yeah," the man said. "Bring it, cash, to Kane Bridge, the west side. In an hour."

 

G laughed aloud. "Not a chance. First, I don't carry that much cash with me. Second, Kane Bridge is too dark, too deserted. Eleven tomorrow night at Thompkins Clinic."

 

"An hour," the man repeated. "Whatever cash you can bring. Thompkins Clinic."

 

The call went dead. G looked up into Sam's inquiring gaze.

 

"Thompkins Clinic," G told him. "An hour."

 

"Where are you supposed to get the reward money in an hour?" Sam asked.

 

"No idea," G answered. "Good thing we're not really giving any to him."

 

"How do you want to play it?" Sam asked.

 

"Fairly straight up," G answered immediately. He'd considered several approaches, and this one seemed the best since this was an undercover operation with the approval and consent of the local LEOs.

 

"Get him to confirm he shot Batman, then arrest him." Sam sounded satisfied. "Easy enough."

 

"Don't jinx it," G muttered.

 

Sam laughed briefly before saying, "How long to this clinic?"

 

"This time of night?" Babs' voice came through their earpieces. "Fifteen minutes from your current location."

 

"Have you called Dr. Thompkins?" G asked. "I remember she liked to work late."

 

"I'm en route," Robin said. "I'll tell her."

 

"I'm calling GCPD," Babs added.

 

"Make sure they hang back," G said. "Don't need them showing up and spooking our guy."

 

Babs acknowledged the order with a simple, "Will do."

 

= * =

 

Save for being a little worse for wear and time, Leslie Thompkins' East End Clinic looked just as G remembered it. At fifteen minutes before one a.m., the few working streetlamps highlighted the name on the clinic, which seemed to have recently been painted - a result, no doubt, of Bruce's ongoing support of the woman who had offered him comfort the night his parents were killed not too far from here.

 

"You sure this isn't a trap?" Sam asked quietly.

 

"I don't see any signs of one," Robin answered through the comms.

 

Sam's expression asked whether G believed the young man.

 

"If you were taught like I was," G answered both Robin's observation and Sam's unspoken question, "then we're good."

 

"We're good," Robin said. Then, "I see someone approaching up Kane Street. Maybe two minutes out, the way he's moving."

 

G nodded to indicate the direction of Kane Street, and Sam shifted position so that he faced Kane Street. Still, between them, they could scan all the approaches to the clinic.

 

"How's he moving?" Sam asked.

 

"Quick but cautious," Robin answered. "Fast walk, keeps looking over his shoulder."

 

"Any sign of a weapon?" G asked.

 

"I don't see one - but he's got a jacket, so he might be carrying."

 

"Roger that," G said, then settled back to lean against the car, looking for all the world like he was playing a game on his phone. Nearby, Sam stood with his arms crossed over his chest.

 

"Jesus, Sam," G muttered. "You'll scare him off."

 

He heard Robin laugh and Babs stifle a chuckle. Sam glared at him but made a visible attempt to relax his stance somewhat.

 

G smirked before apparently turning his attention back to his phone. His other senses were on alert, and it wasn't long before he heard footsteps approaching.

 

"Someone's here," Sam said, and G straightened. He already knew where Kane Street was, but still he waited for Sam to nod before turning to look in the direction Sam indicated. Appearances had to be maintained, after all.

 

At least until they arrested the sonuvabitch.

 

"Recording," Babs said through the comm.

 

The man who approached them looked as though he hadn't slept in several days - not well, at least - and had a growth of beard to match. As he drew closer, G fought the urge to cover his mouth against the man's unwashed stench.

 

"You Malone?" the man asked, though it was more of a stammer than an actual question.

 

"Jamie Malone," G said. "And you are…?"

 

"I shot The Bat," the man said.

 

"Anyone can say that. Can you prove it?"

 

"What, with a video or something?" The man stared at him. "I can tell you how it happened."

 

"How did it happen?" G asked.

 

"I'd just hit a pawn shop on O'Neill," the man said. "And I was thinking I'd gotten away clean when _he_ showed up."

 

Interesting, G thought, how even after almost twenty years people still didn't want to say Batman's name aloud. Someday, someone should write a history of the Batman's mystique - but not him, not now.

 

"Go on."

 

"I panicked, man - wouldn't you?" The man must've read G's silence as agreement, because he continued, "I panicked, and I ran, and then I hit a blind alley, nowhere to go - and I turned, and pulled the trigger."

 

It was plausible enough, but in his time with NCIS and other alphabet agencies, G had heard more false confessions than a priest heard real ones. If he were going to arrest a man, G had to be sure it was the right man.

 

"Where?"

 

"Where what?"

 

"Where'd you shoot him?" G clarified.

 

"I thought I'd missed - I mean, he kept coming, leaping down from the roof like - like - I dunno, some kind of daredevil. Then I realized he wasn't leaping, he was falling."

 

"Then what?" It took every bit of G's undercover skill to keep his expression neutral and his tone merely interested, but then he hadn't gotten the reputation as one of the best undercover operatives in the country by chance.

 

"He fell on a fire escape, and didn't move."

 

"And?"

 

The man swallowed, his gaze darting around the area. "And - I ran. Been running ever since."

 

"Why run? You shot The Bat - you're a hero."

 

"Yeah, that's what I thought, too. Until they started asking questions."

 

G didn't have to hide his frown. "What questions?"

 

"What's he look like under the mask." The man snorted. "Like I was gonna climb up a fire escape just to look under the mask."

 

G didn't have to fake his surprise and was glad it covered his relief. Bruce's identity was still safe.

 

"Like I said, man - I ran. And I'm gonna run right outta Gotham soon's you hand over the reward." The man shifted on his feet, but held G's gaze. "Finder's fee is ten large, so I figure the reward's gotta be at least a hundred."

 

G flicked a glance at Sam. It was all the other man needed to move forward.

 

"More like ten to fifteen years," G said.

 

Sam grabbed the man's arm, pulled it behind him. "You're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."

 

The man stared at G as though his whole life had just ended. Which, in a way, it had.

 

"You're a cop."

 

"Federal agent," G agreed easily, then grinned. "Don't blame Malone. Not his fault I used his name to buy credibility."

 

Sam finished the _Miranda_ warnings as he handcuffed the man and urged him toward the car.

 

"You can't!" The man struggled, but there was no way he'd break free of Sam's grip. Hell, G couldn't break free of it, if Sam decided to press the issue. "You can't! I'll never get out of prison alive."

 

"Shoulda thought of that before you shot him." Sam shut the door on the man who'd shot Batman.


	8. Chapter 8

G picked up the paper cup sitting on the floor beside him and took a sip of the now-cold tea it contained. He hadn't realized how long he'd been sitting here, staring at Bruce, still lying unresponsive on the hospital bed.

 

Sam had offered to sit with him when G came to relieve Babs from her shift at Bruce's bedside, but G declined. "You don't know him, Sam. No reason for you to sit here doing nothing all day when you could be out seeing the sights."

 

"Gotham has sights?" Babs had quipped.

 

Over Sam's chuckle, G said, "Cathedral Square, Kane Bridge, Gotham U, Giordano Botanical Gardens. You know the kids will never forgive you if you don't bring something back for them."

 

Sam couldn't argue that, and Babs had offered to show him around. With a last inquiring look at G, to which G gave a simple nod of acknowledgment, Sam agreed.

 

A glance at his watch told G that conversation had happened four and a half hours ago. No wonder his tea had gone cold.

 

Still, he drained the cup and stood, stretching muscles that protested at being in one position too long, before turning to the door that would take him past the nurses' station to the waiting room and refreshment area where he could refill his tea and maybe find something to eat other than this morning's donuts.

 

Just as he was reaching for the door to Bruce's room, it started to open from the other side. G stepped back, smiling involuntarily when he saw Alfred with, of all things, a very large picnic basket in one hand.

 

"I suspected you might want a proper tea, rather than what the hospital passes off as tea."

 

G grinned. "Thanks, Alfred. I lost track of time."

 

"Understandable." Alfred came into the room and pulled the overbed table between the two guest chairs.

 

G watched as Alfred lowered the table's height to match the chairs and then began setting it.

 

"Only you would bring a linen tablecloth to a hospital." G didn't bother to hide either the amusement or the admiration from his tone.

 

"Ritual brings comfort in times of stress," Alfred answered as he laid out china cups and saucers, along with small plates of sandwiches and cookies - or biscuits, as Alfred called them - followed by a large thermos.

 

"Two places." G observed. "You're actually joining me?"

 

"I thought perhaps Master Bruce might wake and want some tea."

 

G studied his old - friend? mentor? foster-grandfather? whatever Alfred was to him - for a moment, then decided that Alfred must be joking. As prescient as Alfred was, there was no way he could predict when Bruce would wake from the coma. _If_ Bruce would wake from the coma.

 

But then Alfred had always insisted on strict propriety, so -

 

"These must be dark days, if you're sitting down with one of the family." Not that G was, strictly speaking, family anymore. If he ever had been. If Bruce even knew what a family was anymore.

 

Bruce had known, once - G knew that. As surely as he remembered his own family, Bruce remembered his, and therefore what a family was. But for whatever reason, Bruce chose to ignore that, to eschew family and all its possibilities, had even kicked G out when he realized G was getting too close to family for comfort.

 

Or that's what G told himself, at least in the early days when he was trying to figure out what he'd done, when he still thought it was his fault, not Bruce's, that Bruce had kicked him out.

 

"Family." Alfred's voice brought G back to the present, and he blinked when he saw Alfred sitting in one of the chairs, two cups of tea steaming on the table between them. "That is what this is about, isn't it?"

 

G snorted even as he sat in the other chair and reached for the cup nearest him. "It's about Bruce taking one damn chance too many."

 

"It could have been any moment, any chance, that brought him to this state," Alfred said. "It could even have been simply the progression of time."

 

"Not Bruce," G said immediately.

 

"Yes, Bruce," Alfred corrected gently. "Assuming he survives his chosen mission, time will come for him as it comes for us all."

 

G shook his head, but he knew Alfred was right. Still the image of a doddering Bruce, rattling around in an empty Wayne Manor, didn't fit.

 

Much like Bruce lying comatose in a hospital bed didn't fit.

 

"Whatever the reason, you would still be here."

 

G shot a look over his teacup at Alfred. "I would?"

 

"You are his next-of-kin," Alfred said simply.

 

G set his cup down carefully. "I'm _what_?"

 

"His next-of-kin," Alfred repeated. "Who else would fill the role?"

 

"You. Babs, maybe. Robin, when he's old enough."

 

"He named you the day you turned eighteen," Alfred said. "To my knowledge, he has never changed that designation."

 

And Alfred would know. There wasn't any aspect of Bruce's life that Alfred didn't know about, even manage.

 

"I wondered why you contacted me, after what happened," G said finally. "Yes, I wanted to know he's hurt, but -" he blew out a breath. "Let's just say it was a definitive parting on both sides."

 

"Perhaps," Alfred allowed. "But the fact remains that you are the only one he could trust with this kind of decision."

 

"He trusts you."

 

"But not with this." Alfred looked away from his cup, toward where Bruce lay, and for the briefest of moments, G saw grief, dismal and pure, on the older man's face. But when Alfred turned back to G, his expression was as composed as ever. "Not with this. He doesn't trust me with this because I don't trust me with this."

 

G swallowed past a sudden tightness in his throat.

 

"But," Alfred continued, gently but implacably, "that is not why I am here this afternoon. It is not yet time for that particular decision to be made."

 

"No," G agreed. "Not yet."

 

Not while Bruce still had a chance. Not while the doctors reported that his brain function wasn't impacted. Not while he might still wake up.

 

"There is, however, one decision to make now."

 

G had never believed in premonitions - how could he, when he'd had no idea that his parents would be killed? - but something in Alfred's tone or his words made foreboding settle heavily in his stomach. "What's that?"

 

"Whether you will keep his identity safe for him."

 

= * =

 

Gotham City wasn't New York or San Francisco, but Sam had to admit that some of its sights were impressive. Or maybe he was just impressed with Barbara's commentary, delivered with a sharp, dry wit that reminded him oddly of G.

 

Then again, if Barbara had babysat G when he was a child, it would be natural for him to have learned some of her humor.

 

Sam was surprised when she turned toward Wayne Manor.

 

"Not the hospital?"

 

"Doctor Thompkins will be there. She comes in every evening before starting a late shift at her clinic," Barbara said. "Between us, I think she doesn't trust the doctors there."

 

Sam laughed at that. "I guess I get that. See you tomorrow?"

 

"See you tomorrow." She smiled, and Sam tapped her door twice, signaling that she was clear to pull away.

 

"Evening, Alfred," he said as the door opened even before he reached it.

 

"Good evening, Master Hanna," Alfred said. "There is still some time before dinner."

 

"Where's G?"

 

"Downstairs."

 

Something in Alfred's tone made Sam shoot him a look. Alfred met his gaze impassively.

 

"How long has he been down there?" Sam asked finally.

 

"Since we returned from the hospital."

 

"There a problem?"

 

"I'm sure I don't know."

 

With that, Alfred disappeared deeper into the house. Sam frowned after him. He'd only known the man a few days, but Sam was very good at reading people. He had to be, to be a successful undercover operator, and there was something about the butler that reminded him of Hetty Lange.

 

All of his instincts told him that Alfred would never risk breaking a confidence, but still Sam had the sense that there was, in fact, a problem. The question was, what was the problem?

 

There was only one way to find out. He grabbed two bottles of water from a cabinet in the study and headed for the concealed entrance to the Batcave.

 

The name still made him grin. The grin faded when he saw the entrance standing open. Alfred's doing, no doubt.

 

Damn, he really was like a male Hetty.

 

Sam stepped through the doorway, securing it behind him, and headed down the stairs, scanning the cave as he descended.

 

G stood before Batman's body armor and weapons. Sam crossed the floor to him.

 

"No change?" Sam asked by way of greeting.

 

"No." G took the bottle Sam offered, his expression suggesting he wished it was something stronger.

 

"I can get something from upstairs," Sam offered.

 

G shook his head immediately. "I have to think, and I have to be clear-headed when I do."

 

Sam frowned, the lightness he'd felt after spending the afternoon playing tourist eclipsed by the grim reality facing his partner. "Whether or not it's time?"

 

"Huh?" G looked up, confused for a moment. Then, "No, not that. Not yet, anyway."

 

"Then what?" Sam took a long pull of his water.

 

"This." G gestured toward the armor with his own bottle.

 

"What about it?"

 

"Bruce has kept this secret for years," G said. "Only the people you've met know. I'm sure Commissioner Gordon and Doctor Thompkins suspect - hell, they've probably figured it out. But Bruce never told them."

 

"So that's where you get it from," Sam quipped, and was rewarded with a twitch of G's lip.

 

Then, "They want me to go out tonight."

 

"Out?" Sam frowned. "On a date?"

 

"No. On patrol." Again, G gestured at the armor with his water bottle.

 

"Why?"

 

"If Batman goes dark at the same time Bruce is injured, that could be enough for others to figure it out."

 

Sam got it. "Others as in criminals."

 

"He's made enough enemies that - well." G cracked open his bottle and downed half the contents.

 

"If he's … incapacitated, would they go after others?" Sam asked.

 

"Are you willing to chance it?" G countered. "More to the point, am _I_ willing to chance it?"

 

"You think they'd come after you?"

 

"No," G answered immediately. "If NCIS couldn't find my real name, it's not likely anyone else can. But Alfred, Babs, Robin… I'm the only one who can go out as Batman and keep up the illusion that he and Bruce are separate people."

 

"Why's that decision bothering you?"

 

G stared at him. "Why wouldn't it? I'm a law enforcement officer. Do you know how many laws I'd be breaking if I went out as a vigilante?"

 

Sam couldn't help the laugh. "Seriously, G? You told me yourself you don't break the rules, you bend them. You're the last person I'd worry about crossing those lines."

 

But G's expression said there was more to it than that. "What is it?"

 

"I loved the trapeze," G said finally. "Loved flying through the air, waiting for Mom or Dad to catch me… I thought it was the closest you could get to flying. Then I was Robin, swinging from building to building on a jumpline."

 

"Seriously?" Sam blurted the question, almost an accusation.

 

"Seriously," G said. "We moved fast, and I really was flying." He looked away for a moment, then met Sam's gaze fully. "You have to understand this, Sam - I _loved_ it."

 

And then Sam understood - not loving it, necessarily, but what went with it. "You're afraid you'll love it too much."

 

"Almost as much as I'm afraid I'll slam into Wayne Tower and break my neck. I am out of practice."

 

"Do you have to swing from buildings?" Sam asked when he thought he could speak normally again. His world had turned upside down so many times during this trip that he wasn't certain it would ever right itself again.

 

"Have to?" G considered the question. "Maybe not. Maybe I can be convincing enough on the ground."

 

Sam nodded, as though he understood and agreed with G's position completely. Then he tried to bring the conversation back to the, in his opinion, more important issue. "And the other?"

 

"The other?" G frowned for just a moment. Then his expression cleared. "The temptation."

 

"If that's what you want to call it." Sam leaned against the display case, only half surprised when no pressure-sensitive alarm went off. "You think you can wear the suit and still be an agent?"

 

G took a swallow of his water, apparently focused intently on the action from beginning to end. Then he looked up to meet Sam's eyes. "I have to."

 

Sam met G's gaze, intent as it could only get when they were on a hunt for the bad guys. Sam nodded once. "You want me on comms?"

 

"Please," G said immediately, and Sam grinned. As many times as G had pulled him back from the brink of doing something he'd regret, Sam was more than willing to repay the favor.

 

"In that case, Master G," Alfred's voice made Sam turn, "we should see to your fitting."

 

Alfred moved soundlessly across the cave.

 

"How does he -?" Sam began.

 

"I don't even wonder anymore," G answered.


	9. Chapter 9

Besides not wondering how Alfred knew exactly when he was needed, G had also given up wondering how Alfred worked so much magic. His initial thoughts had run the gamut from time machines through actual magic including but not limited to ritual sacrifices, through a tesseract hidden somewhere in the depths of the cave.

 

Whatever Alfred's secret, he'd managed to alter one of Bruce's spare suits to fit G - despite the body armor and weapons pouches worked into the suit. G bent at waist and knees, checking his mobility.

 

"I trust everything is satisfactory, Master G?" Alfred asked, with a tone that implied everything had damned well better be satisfactory.

 

"It's not my old suit," G said, "but for tonight, it'll be fine."

 

Alfred's lips pressed together, and G suppressed a grin. Sometimes, the old man was too easy to bait.

 

Sam's approach saved him from whatever scathing remark Alfred would have made in return.

 

"Comms," was all Sam said before he handed an earwig to G. G inserted it in his ear, then settled the cowl and cape in place.

 

"Still haven't gotten Bruce to give up the cape," G murmured. "Gotta work on that."

 

"Why?" Babs' voice came through the comm.

 

"Too easy to grab," Sam answered for him. "Too easy to use against him."

 

"It resembles bat wings," was all Babs said in response, and G almost laughed at Sam's baffled expression.

 

"Bruce is a little obsessed with the bat-thing," G said.

 

 _A little?_ Sam's raised eyebrow countered the observation, and this time G did chuckle.

 

A flicker of movement caught G's eye and he turned to see Robin in civilian clothes heading for his own suit.

 

"Hey, now," G said. "What're you doing?"

 

"Suiting up," Robin answered, as though it were obvious. Which, G reflected, it was, but that didn't answer the more pressing question.

 

"Why?"

 

"So I can have your back out there." Robin didn't say _duh!_ but he might as well have.

 

"No," G said, and was pleased when Sam and Alfred echoed it.

 

"What do you mean, no?" Robin crossed his arms over his chest, and when he had his full growth and another twenty years of life experience, G thought the pose and expression might actually be intimidating.

 

"Because I don't know you," G answered. "I don't know how you fight, how you'll react to situations - hell, I don't even know your name."

 

Robin started to speak, but G held up a hand. "No, I get it, and I'm fine with it. But you're not coming into the field with me under those conditions."

 

"But -"

 

G turned to Sam. "How long have we been partners?"

 

Sam shrugged. "Five years, give or take."

 

"I know how Sam thinks, how he responds," G told Robin. "I can anticipate him, and he can anticipate me. That anticipation has saved our asses a dozen times. The lack of it would've gotten us killed at least as many. I owe Bruce, but I'm not getting myself killed for him."

 

 _At least, not if he could help it._ G wasn't ignorant or stupid - he knew the kind of life Bruce lived, knew that any night he went out could be the last. But he wasn't going to increase those odds.

 

"You can't stop me from going out tonight," Robin said.

 

"Yes," Sam answered seriously. "We can."

 

"But they don't have to," Babs cut in. "They're right, Rob - you know that. Besides, weren't you telling me earlier that you have homework to catch up on?"

 

Robin looked mulish. "How long have you been out of the field?"

 

"I'm still in the field," G replied. "Not in a cape and cowl, not with fancy gimmicks - but I'm in the field."

 

"And in the field, I have his back."

 

Even G blinked at Sam's tone. There was no arguing with it, nor with the man who said the words.

 

"Sam -" G began, only to have Sam's glare turn on him. It had been a long time since his partner had glared at him like he meant it, and G forced himself to stand his ground.

 

"I have your back," Sam said deliberately. Then he turned to Robin and spoke in the same tone. "You - do your homework."

 

Robin wanted to protest, G saw that, but instead he just scowled and moved away from the equipment toward the stairs to the manor.

 

From her position at the computer, Babs said, "I bet your kids hate that tone."

 

Sam grinned. "You have no idea." Then he turned to G. "So how's this gonna work?"

 

"I monitor the police bands from here," Babs said. "And when I hear about something that's, well, Batman-level, I pass on the information. It's up to Batman how to handle it."

 

"And I'm thinking that shouting, _federal agent, freeze_ isn't the best way to handle it," Sam said dryly.

 

"Usually not," Babs answered equally dryly.

 

G looked between the two of them. "I'm doomed."

 

Their matching grins sent a shiver down his spine.

 

= * =

 

In the end, it was both better and worse than G had expected.

 

Better, because he tried a simple jumpline swing from Von Gruenwald Tower to the top of a nearby building and found that muscle memory kicked in - even if the landing was a bit sloppier than he would've liked.

 

After that, he swung from building to building easily - even if his muscles would protest tomorrow.

 

Worse, because it was too easy to fall back into the vigilante mindset. More than once, Sam's gentle reminders of, "Evidence, G - you need evidence," or "Don't beat him up - just stop him," helped him remember who he was now - who he had _chosen_ to be now.

 

Still, by the time the night was over, he'd interrupted two muggings in progress by sheer chance, as well as prevented a jewel thief from escaping by climbing _up_ the wall of the building.

 

G intercepted the would-be thief on the roof with a grin and a right hook that put him down for the count. G secured him to the fire escape along with the stolen jewels, then watched from a roof across the street until the GCPD arrived to make the arrest.

 

He moved more than Bruce would have, to make sure he drew their attention as he leapt off the roof, jumpline at the ready. It was a message for police and criminals alike, that Batman was still on the job.

 

G slid into the driver's seat of the Batmobile, surprised to find it was barely one in the morning. He remembered later nights when he was Robin.

 

But when he was Robin, he'd been both a lot younger and a lot more eager to take on the world with nothing but a partner and a few gimmicks at his side.

 

_Things haven't changed much. At least on the outside._

 

Inside, suddenly G felt older than his years. He knew they'd want him to go out a few more times - probably every other night while he was here. And that brought his discussion with Alfred and Sam's question from earlier to the forefront of his mind.

 

_When would it be time to disconnect Bruce's life support?_

 

G turned the question this way and that as he aimed the Batmobile toward Wayne Manor, activating a half-dozen different electronic scramblers and countermeasures to be sure he wasn't tracked.

 

The cave was, thankfully, empty when he returned. He stripped out of the suit and pulled on his jeans and Henley. After returning the suit to its stand, he set the Batmobile to charge its fuel cells and turned toward the stairs that led back into the manor proper.

 

G supposed he shouldn't be surprised when Sam was waiting for him, a glass of whisky in each hand.

 

G took the glass Sam offered him, raised it to his partner. "Thanks for having my back."

 

"Anytime, partner." Sam touched his glass to G's. "Didn't sound like you needed much help, though."

 

"More than you think." G crossed to a chair, dropped into it. "Do I want to know how you convinced Alfred to go to bed before I got back?"

 

"I didn't."

 

G raised an eyebrow at him. After a moment, Sam's lip twitched.

 

"I convinced Barbara. She convinced him."

 

G chuckled and finally took a sip of the whisky.

 

"So?" Sam asked.

 

"So what?"

 

Sam gave him an exasperated look. "So - debrief."

 

"Why? You heard it all."

 

"Not the debrief I meant." Sam tapped his temple with a forefinger, and G blew out a breath.

 

"Not as bad as it could've been," was his conclusion.

 

"You thinking of coming back here permanently?"

 

"Hell no." G spoke almost before Sam finished the question. "That's not who I am anymore, Sam. I walked away from that name, that life."

 

"You were the one worried about falling back into the mindset."

 

And even here, now, after the operation was over - and, G realized with a start, that's how he was thinking of it, as an operation - Sam had his back.

 

"I didn't," G said. "Really."

 

"Really." Sam's tone wasn't so much doubting as asking for confirmation. G could give him that.

 

"Really. It was tempting, and I slipped a couple of times, but ultimately it was me doing what I do best - playing a role. You kept me from going too far."

 

"Then what was it?"

 

G took another sip of whisky, savoring it to buy him time to answer, because he had to answer, and this was Sam, and he had to give Sam the truth. He didn't have to be happy about it.

 

"It was the rush," G said finally. "One jump off a rooftop, and it's like I was eight or thirteen or sixteen again. But I'm not, and those days are behind me."

 

Sam studied him over a sip of his own whisky. "You sure?"

 

"I'm sure." And he was. He'd rarely been more sure of anything, in fact, and that certainty warmed him as much as the whisky.

 

"So what now?" Sam asked.

 

G let out a silent sigh, and with it, the last of his barriers. Not that he had many barriers with Sam after so long a partnership. "Now… I sit watch with Bruce, and go out a couple more times, and then I go home."

 

Sam nodded, once. "Okay. How can I help?"

 

"I have no right to ask you -"

 

"G." Sam's tone was gentle, but firm. "We're partners. You have every right."

 

"To keep you away from Michelle and the kids, when it's not work-related?"

 

"Yeah. We're more than partners, G. We're friends. And you said it yourself, Michelle likes you. How can I help?"

 

G swallowed past a sudden tightness in his throat. "Have my back when I go out again. Remind me who I am and why I'm here."

 

Sam snorted. "I thought you were gonna ask something hard."


	10. Chapter 10

Over the next five days, in a silent acknowledgment of the seriousness of Bruce's condition and the decisions he might have to make regarding that condition, G spent the mornings reacquainting himself with Bruce's life. It was just as he remembered it, except bigger, even more larger-than-life, and it was only in the privacy of his own thoughts that G would admit to some intimidation at taking responsibility for it all.

 

Still, Bruce had apparently left that responsibility to him, and it was the last thing he could do for the man who had saved him from despair and given him purpose, so he would do it as best he could.

 

G spent the afternoons at Bruce's bedside, reading or simply thinking. Sam joined him for an hour or two each day, but otherwise left him alone to … well. G didn't ask what Sam did when they weren't together. He was imposing on Sam's time enough already and didn't need to know every detail of his partner's day.

 

His nights - more than the one or two he'd intended - were spent on the streets of Gotham, the suit settling less and less comfortably on his shoulders each night. Babs might be the Oracle, giving him information on crimes and other times he might be needed, but it was Sam's voice, familiar after so many stakeouts together, that kept him grounded and reminded of who he was and why he was gallivanting around dressed up as a bat.

 

At the end of his first week in Gotham, G conferred with Bruce's doctors, both the specialists treating him and his personal physician, Dr. Leslie Thompkins.

 

"He's still alive, right?" G asked. "Not just in a machines-keeping-him-alive way, but _alive_?"

 

"There's still brain activity," the neurologist said. "But it's not like what we usually see in patients in his condition."

 

"What is it like, then?" G asked.

 

"Like he's in deep meditation," the neurologist answered. "It's the damnedest thing I've ever seen, and I would love to write a paper on it someday."

 

G didn't have to think before he responded to that, "A year after it's over, however it ends. Properly anonymized."

 

"Of course." The neurologist looked offended that he'd even had to say it.

 

He didn't pay attention to the rest of what the doctors said. He had his answer, and now all he had to do was decide how to proceed.

 

When the specialists left, Dr. Thompkins took his hand, her wrinkled hand dry and tiny in his. "You know he's come out of worse than this."

 

"I don't remember worse than this," G confessed.

 

"Well, he has. He'll come out of this, too." Dr. Thompkins squeezed his hand, and then she was gone, leaving him alone once more.

 

Alone with an unconscious Bruce.

 

Again. Still.

 

G swore under his breath. After days of sitting vigil, he should be used to a too-still, too-silent Bruce, but he wasn't.

 

The Bruce he knew was alive, filled with determination, always in motion, whether in a boardroom or the streets. No matter how often he saw Bruce like this, G knew he'd never get used to it.

 

The door to the room opened, and Sam came in bearing a drink holder with two cups in it and two large bags with a familiar logo.

 

"Who told you Tony's Burgers is my favorite?" he asked.

 

"Not Robin," Sam answered. "And why didn't you tell me about Zesti Cola?"

 

G paused midway to taking one of the drinks and one of the bags. "The guy who yells at me all the time for my eating habits, Mr. _I eat all my vegetables and you should, too_ , wants to know why I didn't tell him about a soda pop?"

 

"It's good soda pop." Sam set the other bag on the overbed table.

 

G could only shake his head. "Zesti's regional, can't get it in L.A."

 

"They have this thing now called the Internet." Sam took a burger from his bag and started to peel back the wrapper. "You can order things from anywhere in the world, have them delivered right to you."

 

"Fine." G grabbed a burger from his own bag. "I'll send Kamran and Aiden each a case for Christmas."

 

"Funny, G. Real funny." Sam's last word trailed off into an _mm_ as he took the first bite of the burger.

 

"They're my favorite for a reason." G followed suit, and for a while the room was quiet while they ate.

 

A sound, the faintest whisper of fabric on fabric, had G out of his seat, his gun in his hand and his burger forgotten before he even realized where the sound had come from.

 

Bruce's bed.

 

He holstered his weapon and was at Bruce's bedside in two quick steps.

 

"Bruce?" he said. "You back with us?"

 

Bruce's hand moved again, and G clasped it in his own. A return squeeze sent his heart soaring.

 

"D-Dick?" Bruce's voice was hoarse, dry from disuse while he'd been unconscious, but almost as strong as G remembered. Of course. Not even a bullet to the head could keep Bruce Wayne down for long. Still….

 

"Wait one." G looked to the table, but there was no cup of ice chips waiting, because they'd had no idea when - if - Bruce would wake.

 

But there was a Zesti Cola, and G reached for it to scoop an ice chip out with his fingers and drop it into Bruce's mouth.

 

Another ice chip followed, and a third.

 

"That's probably enough for now," G said. "You've been out a while."

 

"How long?" The words might be slow, but at least Bruce's voice didn't sound like his throat was made of sandpaper now.

 

"Nine - no, ten days. I think."

 

"Didn't think you'd come."

 

"Like I'm stupid enough to ignore a summons from Alfred. Speaking of -" G looked up, only to see the door closing behind Sam.

 

And that was when the nurse arrived, bustling G out of the way with friendly efficiency.

 

G held Bruce's gaze for a long moment before jerking his head toward the door where Sam had left. Bruce gave a millimetric nod, and G slipped through the door.

 

Sam was waiting in the hallway. "I called Alfred. He said he'd inform the others."

 

"Thanks." Then Sam's expression registered and G gave a silent sigh. "Go ahead. Say it."

 

"Your name's Dick."

 

"Richard. Or it was. Now it's G."

 

Sam grinned. "So when people call you a dick, they're being literal."

 

"Just telling the truth," G said. He had no need to remind Sam that what happened in Gotham stayed between them - and maybe Michelle, if Sam really felt the need to talk about it - but that didn't mean Sam wasn't going to tease him mercilessly about it forever.

 

Sam's now-sober expression and intense scrutiny brought him back from his momentary reverie.

 

"What?"

 

"You good?" Sam asked.

 

"Bruce is awake." And he didn't have to make the decision to end Bruce's life support as a result. "I'm good."

 

= * =

 

G let Bruce's family - Alfred, Babs, Robin, the commissioner and Dr. Thompkins - have the first day Bruce was awake. It was an obvious courtesy, and one no one would think twice about.

 

The morning of the second day found him in the Batcave, pounding hard on a punching bag, sweat flooding from his body thanks to the punishment he gave it.

 

"That's my thing." Sam's voice punctuated G's blows.

 

"Yeah, well -" G landed a double-punch combination on the bag. "I'll borrow anybody's thing if it works."

 

"Works to do what?" Sam crossed to stand behind the bag, bracing it.

 

"Get my mind off things." G may have hit the bag harder than usual on that sentence.

 

Sam gave a slight grunt and adjusted his stance. "Things like the choice you have to make?"

 

"Choice?" G paused, his hands still in fight-ready position. "What choice?"

 

"Whether you're coming back to L.A. or staying here."

 

G felt his eyebrows pinch together. "Why would I stay here?"

 

"It's home - or it was home."

 

G shook his head, cutting off whatever Sam might have said next. "It's not home. It wasn't home when I left, and it hasn't been home since. It's sure not home now."

 

"Isn't it?" Sam countered. "Alfred adores you. Barbara misses you. Robin could use a big brother."

 

"Babs misses me?" G shook his head again. "Even if she did, nothing in that list addresses what I need or want."

 

"And what is that?" Sam asked, more a challenge than a question. "What do you want?"

 

"Why's it so hard for you to believe that I'm happy at NCIS?"

 

"This." Sam waved one hand in an inclusive gesture. "There's so much more here than even Hetty has access to."

 

"It's not about the toys, Sam," G snapped. "It's about doing the right thing, the right way. It's about protecting our servicemen and women, and when we can't, getting justice for them."

 

"Doesn't Batman do the same thing, on a smaller scale?"

 

"Maybe," G allowed, his thoughts falling into place even as he spoke. "Maybe. A little. But it's not the same. Batman doesn't care about laws or procedures. He cares about justice, yes, but the justice that slides a little too close to revenge for my comfort. Why all the questions, anyway? You trying to get rid of me?"

 

"No." Sam's serious expression matched his tone. "I'm trying to be sure you know what you want, so if you come back to L.A., you do it with a clear conscience."

 

"If I wanted this," G said carefully, "I could've had it at any time."

 

"At what cost?" Sam asked. "Coming back with your tail between your legs? This time, if you stay here, you're the returning hero, the prodigal son."

 

"Not interested." G started unwrapping the tape on his left hand. This workout was clearly over, no matter what Sam had intended.

 

"Come on, G - how can you give this up? The money, the freedom to do as you like when you're in costume?"

 

"I was born into nothing. I never wanted Bruce's money, and if he leaves any of it to me in his will, I'm giving it to charity. Or you. Or Kensi. Or even Deeks. I don't want any of it."

 

"Not even a legacy?"

 

G scowled, and bit back a scathing retort. Sam was only doing what a partner - a _friend_ \- should do. Yelling at him for it would be ungrateful.

 

"I have a legacy," G said carefully. "And it's not the Flying Graysons. It's not Bruce Wayne's ward or foster son or whatever. It's the work I've done for the FBI, CIA, and NCIS."

 

Sam studied him for long moments. Whatever he was looking for, he must have found it, because he nodded. "Okay. You going to see him today?"

 

G unwrapped the tape from his other hand. "I am sorely tempted to just fly back to L.A."

 

"Why?"

 

G debated briefly, and then gave his partner the truth. "To avoid talking to him."

 

"You know you should."

 

"Pretty sure he said all that needed saying the night he fired me."

 

"Maybe," Sam allowed. "And maybe not. See, G, thing about being a parent is, there are no manuals. No rule books. Worst of all, no resets. And all parents make mistakes."

 

"Even you?" G couldn't help the challenge. He knew Sam's kids, and knew Sam and Michelle, and knew that if any kids were going to turn out well, Aiden and Kamran Hanna would.

 

"Even me," Sam agreed. "Some of the mistakes are small - like not getting Kamran what she wanted for Christmas. Some of them are bigger, and if I could think of an example, I'd give you one. The hell of it is, you don't realize you're making a mistake until after it's made and you're dealing with the fallout."

 

G sighed. "Or not dealing with it, because your child ran away."

 

"Your words, man," Sam said.

 

"Because they're what you would say," G shot back.

 

But somewhere inside, he knew Sam was right. He had to talk to Bruce, if only to clear the air between them before he returned to Los Angeles.

 

= * =

 

It was almost noon when G let himself into Bruce's room. Morning rounds would be complete so they shouldn't be interrupted.

 

Bruce looked up from the _Gotham Gazette_ someone had brought him. G kept his expression neutral even if he did take a perverse enjoyment in Bruce's ever-so-slight double take.

 

"Dick." Bruce sounded stronger already. "I thought I'd hallucinated that."

 

"Sorry to disappoint." The words were out before G thought, and he winced. "Sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

 

"You should say what you're thinking. Even if I don't like it."

 

That made G's eyebrows rise. "You don't like it?"

 

"No." Bruce folded the _Gazette_ and laid it aside. "I don't like that you think you could ever disappoint me."

 

G lingered at the door. "You made it pretty clear I had."

 

He didn't miss the stricken expression that crossed Bruce's face and was gone almost before it registered. Then Bruce sighed.

 

"I guess we need to talk about that."

 

Something in Bruce's tone made G step forward, finally. Much as he'd done during his first visit to this room, G pulled a chair closer to the bed. Sitting it in meant he had to look up at Bruce a little, but this conversation didn't need any other attempts at intimidation. Not, he reflected, that he'd ever be able to intimidate Bruce.

 

"You're right," Bruce said finally. "I was disappointed - but not in you. In me."

 

G narrowed his eyes, as if that would somehow help him see Bruce more clearly. "Explain."

 

"I screwed up, and you suffered for it."

 

Realization dawned. "And you've always been good at directing your anger outward."

 

"Something like that," Bruce agreed wryly. "I lashed out, and then you went away."

 

That much was true. But, still, "You let me stay away. Which meant you wanted me to stay away."

 

"Or I was too stubborn, too proud, to track you down."

 

"You really did get hit on your head, didn't you?" G asked, a hint of humor in his tone. "Are you sure you're still Bruce Wayne?"

 

Bruce's lips twisted into an approximation of a smile. "That's what the staff keeps calling me. Look, Dick - I know it's a lot of years overdue, and probably too little too late, but for what it's worth, I'm sorry."

 

G blew out a breath. He hadn't realized how much he'd wanted to hear those words until he actually did. Now that he had heard them, they felt hollow - too little too late, as Bruce had said.

 

But the words were a peace offering, and G found he wanted to accept it, however hollow the words may have felt, if only to finally close out this part of his life.

 

"I kept your city safe," he said. "I kept your identity safe."

 

"Thank you." Bruce hesitated for a moment, and G thought he'd never seen the other man looking so vulnerable. "You said I let you stay away, and I did. But I always knew what you were doing."

 

G nodded - he'd assumed something of the sort, given how he'd been summoned here. He waited for whatever came next.

 

"And?" G prompted when Bruce still hesitated.

 

"And - you made different choices than I would have. Than I did," Bruce corrected himself. "But they're good choices."

 

Those words rang with sincerity, and G smiled. He and Bruce might never be family, might never even be partners the way he and Sam were, but they could respect each other, and that was enough.


	11. Chapter 11

G wasn't too surprised that Sam was waiting for him when he finally left Bruce's room. He was surprised that Alfred was there with the Phantom.

 

He grinned at Alfred. "Kicking me out already?"

 

"Perish the thought," Alfred replied.

 

"Time for me to get back to Michelle and the kids," Sam said. "How much longer should I tell Hetty you'll be?"

 

"I'll go back with you," G answered immediately, almost instinctively. "I've done what needed to be done here."

 

"Will you say goodbye to anyone, sir?" Alfred asked, and G paused to give that question some thought.

 

Who did he have to say goodbye to besides Alfred? Oh, sure, it was good to see Babs again, but she clearly had no interest in him. Robin - well. That kid had more chips on his shoulders than G cared to deal with. And he and Bruce had already said what needed to be said.

 

"I don't think so," he said finally.

 

Alfred frowned, very slightly, but all he said was, "Very good, Master G. Master Hanna suspected as much, so your bag is in the trunk."

 

G blinked. "You're finally calling it the trunk, not the boot?"

 

"After so many years in America, a few bad habits were bound to rub off." Alfred's expression remained neutral even as his eyes glinted with mirth.

 

G allowed Alfred to open the door, then climbed in after Sam.

 

The ride to the airport was comfortably quiet, even with Sam's barely-concealed excitement. G agreed with him - it was time to go home.

 

G raised an eyebrow when he saw the plane waiting for them. "The Wayne Enterprises jet?"

 

"Master Bruce insisted," was Alfred's only reply.

 

Then they were out of the car, accepting their go-bags from Alfred.

 

"Good to meet you, Alfred." Sam offered his hand.

 

"And you, Master Hanna." Alfred eyed Sam's offered hand dubiously.

 

"C'mon," Sam said. "It won't kill you."

 

Alfred's lips twitched, but he shook Sam's hand briefly. Sam grinned at him.

 

"Thanks for contacting me," G said.

 

"It was the right thing to do," Alfred answered. "For him, and I daresay for you."

 

"It was." And then there was really nothing else to say except, "Take care of yourself."

 

"And you."

 

G held Alfred's gaze for a long moment, then nodded a farewell and turned toward the waiting jet.

 

He was at the bottom of the steps when Alfred's voice rang out across the tarmac.

 

"Do give my regards to Henrietta."

 

G froze, only for a moment, but Alfred was already in the Phantom by the time he turned around.

 

"Y'know," Sam mused, "that explains a lot."

 

= * =

 

Hetty enjoyed the quiet of the mission when the staff had gone for the day. It wasn't silent, but the background noise of conversation and movement faded to be replaced by the hum of HVAC climate control and appliances like the refrigerator.

 

She didn't make a habit of staying too late unless a case demanded it, but tonight, she'd chosen to linger and bask in the muted sounds of her domain.

 

…the muted sounds that were punctuated by near-silent footsteps.

 

She looked up from her work.

 

"Mr. Callen. Welcome back."

 

His pace never wavered as he took one of the chairs opposite her desk. "Good to be back."

 

Hetty studied his expression, then rose and retrieved a bottle of scotch and two glasses. "I trust your family emergency is sorted out?"

 

"Well enough." Callen sat forward to accept the glass she offered him.

 

He waited until she resumed her seat before saying, "Alfred Pennyworth sends his regards."

 

Hetty felt her eyes widen, then narrow. Pennyworth. An obvious conclusion from P. Worth, and if it had been less than forty years since she'd seen Alfred Pennyworth, she might have made the connection sooner.

 

But that didn't explain how Callen knew Alfred - nor even what Alfred was doing now. So, really, there was only one thing she could say.

 

"There's a story there."

 

Callen grinned. "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."


End file.
